!| 

1 

THE  LOVE 

OF  AN 

UNKNOWN  SOLDIER 

! 

lifor: 

ional 

iity  | 

! 

uj 

Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE     LOVE     OF    AN 

UNKNOWN   SOLDIER 


f*»**--n£./?      o-^ 


FACSIMILE   OH    A    SHEET   OK    THE    MS. 


THE    LOVE    OF    AN 

UNKNOWN  SOLDIER 
FOUND   IN  A  DUG-OUT 


LONDON :    JOHN     LANE,     THE    BODLEY    HEAD 
NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY.    MCMXVIII 


SECOND   EDITION 


WILLIAM    CLOWES   AND    SONS,    LIMITED,    LONDON   AND    EECCLKS,    ENGLAND. 


6ooo 
/9/e 

AN  EXPLANATION 

THE  publication  of  documents  as  intimate 
as  those  printed  in  this  little  volume  re- 
quires some  explanation  and  apology,  but 
I  venture  to  think  that  my  reasons  will 
be  found  sufficient. 

The  MS.  was  submitted  to  me  by  a 
young  officer  of  the  R.F.A.,  home  from 
the  front  on  leave,  who  had  just  read 
"The  MS.  in  a  Red  Box."  This  cir- 
cumstance, he  admitted,  had  decided  him 
to  consult  me.  He  explained  that  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  France  a  bundle 
of  papers  which  he  had  found  in  one  of 
the  dug-outs  of  an  abandoned  gun  position. 
To  use  his  own  words :  "  The  position  was 
in  a  hell  of  a  mess."  It  had  been  badly 
knocked  about  by  enemy  bombardments, 
and  had  obviously  been  rendered  untenable 


An   Explanation 

He  discovered  the  papers  secreted  in  a 
dark  corner,  wedged  in  between  a  post 
and  the  wall  of  one  of  the  bunks.  At  first 
he  thought  they  might  be  papers  of  military 
importance,  for  the  care  with  which  they 
had  been  hidden  showed  that  they  had 
been  considered  valuable.  This  fact  alone 
aroused  his  curiosity.  When  he  had  time 
to  examine  them  carefully,  he  discovered 
that  he  was  prying  into  the  intimate  secret 
of  a  brother  officer,  who  was  in  all  proba- 
bility dead.  There  was  no  indication  of 
the  writer's  name  or  of  his  unit,  and  the 
name  of  the  girl  whom  he  had  loved  was 
never  recorded,  so  the  people  most  inti- 
mately concerned  were  left  entirely  anony- 
mous. His  first  impulse  was  to  respect 
the  dead  man's  privacy  and  destroy  the 
papers,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  recog- 
nized that  they  were  the  sacred  property 
of  the  woman  who  had  inspired  such 
adoration  and  courage. 

On  thinking  the  matter  over,  he  began 
vi 


An  Explanation 

to  feel  more  and  more  strongly  that  they 
ought  to  be  given  back  to  that  woman, 

« 

but  the  difficulty  of  doing  so  seemed  in- 
superable. Many  divisions  had  been  in 
that  area,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to 
trace  the  batteries  of  the  various  brigades 
which  had  occupied  those  gun  pits.  It 
was  under  these  circumstances  that  he  told 
me  the  story,  hoping  that  the  mystery 
surrounding  these  letters  might  in  some 
such  way  be  solved  as  the  unknown  author 
of  "  The  MS.  in  a  Red  Box  "  was  eventu- 
ally discovered.  On  reading  the  tattered 
MS.,  I  was  from  the  first  impressed  with 
its  literary  value ;  but  as  I  read  on  I  be- 
came more  and  more  deeply  absorbed  in 
its  poignant  human  importance,  especially 
in  its  importance  to  some  particular  Ameri- 
can girl,  who,  all  unknowingly,  had  quick- 
ened the  last  days  of  this  unknown  soldier's 
life  with  romance.  I  felt  that  she  must 
be  discovered,  and  that  the  only  chance  of 

doing  so  was  by  publishing  the  documents, 
vii 


An  Explanation 

Somewhere  in  France,  where  she  is  carry- 
ing on  her  work  of  mercy,  this  little  book 
may  stray  into  her  hands.  If  it  does,  she 
will  certainly  recognize  herself,  and  re- 
member those  days  of  kindness  which 
meant  so  much  to  a  young  English  officer 
on  leave  in  Paris.  Should  this  happen,  I 
want  her  to  know  that  the  original  papers, 
which  were  meant  for  her  only  and  rescued 
by  chance  from  a  crumbling  dug-out,  are 
awaiting  her  in  my  office,  and  will  be  handed 
over  as  soon  as  she  presents  herself. 

Meanwhile,  I  ask  her  pardon  for  this 
necessary  means  of  making  known  to  the 
world  the  romance  that  she  kindled  in 
the  heart  of  her  lost  soldier,  which  he  him- 
self did  not  Jell  her. 

JOHN   LANE. 


vm 


THE     LOVE     OF     AN 

UNKNOWN   SOLDIER 


THE  LOVE  OF  AN   UNKNOWN 
SOLDIER 


SO  it  is  all  over.  It  was  only  a  dream 
which  happened  in  my  brain.  We 
have  said  good-bye,  and  I  have  not 
told  you.  I  was  so  many  times  on  the 
point  of  telling  you — every  evening  after  I 
had  left  you  I  accused  myself  and  spent 
half  the  night  awake  planning  the  words 
in  which  I  would  confess  when  next  we 
met.  But  we  have  come  to  our  last  night 
and  I  have  kept  silent ;  to-morrow  I  return 
to  the  Front,  leaving  you  almost  as  much 
a  stranger  as  when  we  met. 

I  wonder  if  you  have  guessed.     Surely 
I    could   not    have    loved    you    so    much 

1  B 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

without  your  knowing.  And  yet — yes,  I 
am  glad  that  I  said  nothing.  What  right 
have  I,  who  may  be  dead  within  a  month, 
to  speak  to  you  of  love  ?  To  have  done  so 
would  have  been  the  act  of  a  coward. 

I  want  to  put  the  case  to  myself  so  that 
I  may  act  strongly.  If  I  had  spoken  and 
you  had  loved  me  in  return,  what  would 
have  resulted?  Only  suffering — until  the 
war  is  ended,  we  could  never  have  been 
together — and  you,  all  the  time  you  would 
have  been  lonely.  All  the  time  you  would 
have  been  worrying  about  my  safety.  If 
I  were  wounded  again,  you  would  think 
me  dead.  Though  I  were  badly  wounded, 
you  would  not  be  able  to  come  to  me,  for 
you,  too,  have  your  duty  up  there  behind 

the   Front  at  J ,   you   and    the  other 

American  girls  who  take  care  of  the  French 
babies.  And  then  I  might  have  been 
maimed.  With  the  French  a  man's  wounds 
are  like  decorations,  they  are  tokens  of 
the  new  religion  of  sacrifice.  With  us 

2 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

they  are  still  horrible.  I  would  not  have 
you  held  to  your  bargain  with  a  maimed 
man,  for  I  might  have  to  live  to  see  you 
shudder.  And,  then,  I  may  die  in  this  war 
—who  can  tell  ?  If  I  had  married  you,  I 
should  have  stolen  your  happiness  and  left 
you  deserted.  No,  I  am  glad  I  did  not 
speak  of  love. 

But  why  talk  ?  If  I  had,  you  would 
probably  have  looked  offended  and  have 
refused  me — refused  me  as  1  deserved. 
You  would  have  acted  rightly,  for  I  don't 
believe  in  these  war-engagements  and  war- 
marriages.  Still — the  heart  cries  out ;  it 
is  difficult  to  say  "  No "  to  self  when  one 
is  young.  I  will  not  think  of  these  things  ; 
they  make  me  distracted. 

And  yet  there  is  still  time  to  tell  you. 
I  have  only  to  unhook  the  receiver  and  to 
telephone  to  you.  If  I  did,  what  would 
you  say?  A  queer  way  to  receive  a  pro- 
posal !  At  past  midnight  to  be  roused  from 
sleep  to  hear  a  spectral  voice  saying,  "  Is 

3 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

that  Miss  -  -  ?  This  is  the  man  who's 
been  with  you  all  the  evening — almost  every 
evening,  in  fact,  of  his  leave  in  Paris.  I 
called  you  up  to  ask  if  you'd  marry  me  ?  " 

I  won't  think  of  might-have-beens,  but 
only  of  the  memories.  They'll  be  good 
memories  to  run  over  when  one's  cold  and 
wet  and  cheerless  in  some  caved -in  trench. 
I  shall  tell  myself  the  fairy  story  then  of 
how  I  met  you,  how  I  pledged  myself  to 
meet  you  again,  and  by  accident  kept  my 
word. 

Do  you  remember  that  night,  some 
months  ago,  when  I  had  been  wounded, 
and  had  been  sent  to  America  on  the 
British  Mission  ?  It  was  soon  after  America 
had  become  our  Ally,  and  I  was  speaking 
on  the  splendour  of  men's  souls  in  the 
trenches.  At  the  close,  when  the  hall  was 
emptying,  some  one  brought  you  up  and 
introduced  us.  They  said  that  you  were 
sailing  for  France  with  a  unit  that  was 
going  to  take  care  of  little  children  in  the 

4 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

devastated  districts.  I  looked  into  your 
eyes.  What  did  I  see  there  ?  Something 
haunting  that  I  never  shall  forget.  There 
you  stood — a  tall,  slim  girl,  like  a  rosebud 
on  a  stem  with  its  petals  unfolding.  I  know 
devastated  districts — I  have  helped  to  do 
the  devastating.  There  are  dead  men 
mouldering  in  every  shell-hole.  I  couldn't 
see  you  in  that  picture,  you  with  your 
delicate  fashionable  sweetness.  I  don't 
know  what  I  said.  Can't  remember.  Some- 
thing inadequately  trivial  about  French 
children  being  dirty.  We  shook  hands 
perfunctorily  and  parted.  I  sat  up  most 
of  that  night  thinking.  Next  day  I  tele- 
phoned you  to  wish  you  luck,  but  really  to 
hear  your  voice.  You  had  already  sailed. 
It  was  then  that  I  pledged  myself  somehow 
to  find  you  when  I  returned  to  France. 
How  that  was  to  be  done  I  could  not 
guess.  I  told  myself  it  must  happen— and 
it  has. 

Was  it  fate  ?     Up  there  in  the   mud  I 
5 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

was  offered  a  leave  to  Paris  long  before  my 
turn,  chiefly  because  the  other  officers  pre- 
ferred to  wait  for  Blighty  leave  and  a  good 
many  of  those  who  were  ahead  of  me  were 
dead.  I  came  to  Paris  thinking,  "  There's 
just  a  chance  that  1  may  see  her."  I  went 
to  call  on  the  only  girl  I  knew  and  found 
you  staying  with  her.  Perhaps  it  was  fate ; 
I  prefer  to  think  that  it  was  something 
else. 

That  first  day  I  did  not  see  you,  but  the 
next  you  called  me  up.  I  took  it  as  an 
omen  of  good  fortune  that  you  should  have 
gone  to  that  trouble  ;  it  seemed  to  prove 
to  me  that  to  you  also  that  hurried  intro- 
duction had  been  more  than  an  incident ; 
that  you,  too,  had  been  intrigued  and  made 
a  trifle  curious.  My  vanity,  perhaps  !  But 
it  was  more  than  vanity.  A  man  lives  long 
dreams  at  the  Front — all  the  best  of  the 
past  and  the  tenderest  of  the  insecure 
future  ;  it  is  his  way  of  compensating  him- 
self for  the  brevity  of  the  life  that  he  has. 

6 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

It  was  a  Sunday  that  we  met.  I  had 
been  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
lunch,  and  you,  quite  wonderfully,  had 
accepted.  I  think  I  remember  every  step 
and  emotion  of  that  walk  up  to  the  Champs- 
Elysees  to  call  for  you.  You'd  never  guess 
how  long  I  spent  in  polishing  my  belt  and 
buttons.  Yes,  men  are  like  that.  Are  you 
smiling  ?  Perhaps  you  had  spent  just  as 
long  in  making  yourself  beautiful.  I  should 
like  to  think  that. 

And  my  emotions !  Shall  I  be  frank  ? 
They  were  awfully  muddled.  They  were 
made  up  of  longing,  hope,  doubt  and  the 
terror  that  I  might  appear  absurd.  The 
longing  was  all  for  you.  The  hope  was 
that  you  might  be  sharing  my  longing.  The 
doubt  was  lest  I  might  have  idealized  a 
memory  which,  when  I  saw  you,  would  fade 
into  reality.  Oh,  the  heresy  of  me !  I 
feared  lest  you  might  be  actually  quite 
ordinary,  like  any  other  of  the  many  girls 
who  crowd  the  world.  And  then  my  terror 

7 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

lest  I  might  appear  absurd — I  wonder  if 
girls  know  it.  You  see,  a  man  in  love  is  at 
such  a  disadvantage ;  he  is  not  sure  that 
he  is  cared  for  in  return.  I  had  no  right  to 
that  assurance — I,  a  mere  stranger  who  had 
met  you  once. 

I  came  to  your  hotel.  When  I  inquired 
for  you  of  the  concierge,  he  seemed  to  dis- 
trust me.  He  answered  me  gruffly  that  he 
would  apprise  you  of  my  presence.  When 
he  returned  he  informed  me  with  jealous 
reluctance  that  Mademoiselle  would  pre- 
sently descend.  1  waited.  Heavens,  how 
long  I  waited  !  It  was  five  minutes  pro- 
bably ;  but  it  seemed  a  century.  As  each 
second  ticked  by  I  grew  more  and  more 
dissatisfied  with  my  conduct.  How  imper- 
tinent you  must  think  me  to  presume  on 
this  slight  acquaintance  ! 

Your  footstep  on  the  stairs !  A  gentle 
rustling !  You  were  standing  before  me, 
girlish  and  friendly,  offering  me  the  frail- 
ness of  your  hand.  As  I  touched  it  a  novel 

8 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

happiness  swam  through  me.  I  felt  alive, 
exalted  and  somehow  rested — the  way  one 
does  in  hospital  when  one  reckons  up  the 
days  of  one's  probable  respite  from  cold  and 
fighting  and  discomfort.  What  I  write  is 
inadequate.  It  doesn't  express  a  tithe  of 
what  I  felt.  I  have  spoken  of  the  touch  of 
your  hand,  but  I  think  it  was  the  sympathy 
in  your  eyes  that  touched  me. 

We  were  out  in  the  Avenue,  all  shyness 
gone,  the  frost  in  the  wind  tingling  against 
our  faces.  We  caught  a  tram  and  lost  our- 
selves ;  caught  another  and  recognized  where 
we  were  going.  All  the  while  we  were 
chatting,  asking  questions  and  breaking  in 
with  new  questions  on  each  other's  answers. 
Then  we  alighted  and  walked  for  the  mere 
fun  of  walking.  I  suppose  you'll  never 
know  how  proud  I  was  to  be  seen  beside 
you.  You  didn't  notice  how  people  paused 
to  gaze  after  you.  You  wouldn't ;  one  of 
your  dearest  qualities  is  your  gay  uncon- 
sciousness of  self.  But  picture  me,  fresh 

9 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

from  the  defilement  of  battle-fields,  where 
man's  only  hope  is  to  die  as  heroically  as 
he  can ;  where  one  never  sees  a  woman  or 
children ;  where  one  dare  not  encourage 
tenderness  lest  one  should  become  a  coward  ; 
where  all  beauty,  save  of  the  soul,  and 
every  ambition  for  the  future  is  blotted  out. 
Here  was  I,  a  Lazarus  restored  from  the 
dead,  walking  beside  the  most  beautiful  girl 
in  Paris.  It  was  wonderful,  don't  you  think, 
to  a  man  who  had  been  so  long  buried  that 
the  earth  was  as  yet  scarcely  out  of  his  eyes  ? 
The  fun  we  had  at  the  cafe  where  we 
went  for  lunch — do  you  remember  that  ? 
The  choosing  of  the  courses !  The  way 
you  concealed  your  smile  at  my  halting 
French  and  at  last  came  to  my  rescue  !  Our 
laughter  at  the  curious  people — all  of  them 
kind,  but  not  all  of  them  respectable  !  And 
who  were  we  that  we  should  laugh  at 
others — we  two  who,  by  such  strange 
chances,  had  found  each  other  from  all 
across  the  world  ? 

10 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

When  we  left  it  was  snowing,  not  hard 
but  in  little  puffy  flakes  like  jewels  that 
settled  on  your  hair  and  furs.  1  didn't  want 
to  lose  you,  so  proposed  a  visit  to  the 
Luxembourg.  By  luck  we  found  a  taxi 
and,  when  the  doors  were  shut,  were  for 
the  first  time  alone  together.  It  was  a 
strange  sensation.  Our  words  faltered  ;  we 
fell  into  a  trembling  silence.  This  alone - 
ness,  which  I  feared,  was  the  thing  which 
for  months  I  had  most  desired.  I  felt  so 
keenly  aware  of  you ;  your  beauty  was 
almost  painful.  I  wondered  then,  as  I  have 
wondered  so  many  times,  whether  you  had 
guessed.  I  can  see  you  now — the  clear 
profile  of  your  face  against  the  snow-covered 
window  and  the  quiet  tranquillity  of  your 
folded  hands.  You  seemed  unobtainable 
at  that  moment — a  vision  that  would  fade. 
My  brain  talked  within  itself,  whispering 
things  that  were  so  true  that  they  would 
have  sounded  ridiculous  if  uttered.  And 
yet  there  was  so  little  time.  When  one  has 

11 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

counted  one's  life  in  seconds,  one  loses  re- 
spect for  the  decorous  divisions  of  weeks 
and  months.  I  thought  that  with  luck 
we  might  even  be  married  before  my  leave 
should  end. 

When  once  we  were  in  public  again  our 
thoughts  raced ;  we  lost  all  fear  of  each 
other.  There  was  one  picture  in  the  gal- 
leries that  we  stood  before  for  a  very  long 
time :  a  fire-lit  nursery  table  with  a  candle 
in  the  centre,  children  around  it  and  a  kind 
grey  moon  looking  in  at  the  window.  It 
gave  a  touch  of  home  and  remembrance. 
The  picture  was  by  a  Scotch  artist  who  had 
visited  me  in  my  Oxford  days  ;  I  told  you 
how  I  had  stolen  a  spray  of  chestnut  once 
for  the  background  to  one  of  his  pictures, 
breaking  into  the  Warden's  garden  early 
one  morning  to  do  it. 

We  wandered  out   into  the  Gardens  of 

the   Luxembourg.      How  gay  they   were ! 

War   seemed   very  far  away.      The   paths 

were  slippery ;  I  took  your  arm  at  times  to 

12 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

help  you  over  places  and  laughed  within 
myself  at  its  reluctance.  On  the  pond  the 
Paris  crowd  was  sliding — old  men,  women, 
children,  soldiers,  all  shouting  and  falling 
and  enjoying  themselves  hugely. 

We  walked  down  the  Boule  Miche  to 
Notre- Dame,  where  women  were  praying 
for  their  dead.  We  peeped  in  and  saw  the 
guttering  candles  and  the  wounded  saints. 
Shuddering,  we  escaped  to  where  the  Seine 
lay  blood- red  in  the  winter  sunset.  What 
had  we  to  do  with  death — we  who  were  so 
young  ?  Presently  you  spoke  of  an  appoint- 
ment ;  all  my  contentment  vanished.  Could 
I  see  you  home  ?  Yes.  So  we  jumped  into 
a  taxi.  I  made  a  desperate  effort  not  to  lose 
you — what  were  you  doing  to-night  ?  You 
were  going  to  a  theatre,  but  had  a  spare 
ticket  and  invited  me  to  come.  "  She  does 
care  for  me  a  little,"  I  told  myself — that 
thought  kept  my  heart  singing  after  we  had 
parted. 

What  a  silent  way  you  have  of  entering  ! 
13 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  think  I  noticed  it  for  the  first  time  that 
night.  One  never  hears  you  coming ;  you 
are  absent — one  looks  again  and  you  are 
there.  Your  eyes  have  a  quiet  laughter  ; 
they  seem  to  know  everything  and  to  find 
amusement  in  a  puzzled  world.  I  can't 
think  that  there  was  ever  a  time  when  life 
perturbed  you.  If  I  had  told  you  what  was 
in  my  mind,  I  wonder,  would  it  have  altered 
your  expression  ? 

You  trusted  me  so  much  from  the  very 
first ;  is  that  a  good  sign  for  a  lover  ? 
Strange,  that  I  should  have  conquered  fear 
in  the  front-line,  should  have  lived  for  days 
quite  calmly  with  sudden  death,  and  yet 
should  tremble  before  a  girl ! 

I  have  stopped  to  glance  back  through 
what  I  have  written.  Why  do  I  go  on 
writing  ?  You  will  never  read  it.  I  might 
have  said  so  much  to  you  two  hours  ago  ; 
now  it  is  too  late.  We  have  promised  to 
drop  each  other  a  line  now  and  then — that 
was  how  we  put  it.  Nothing  more  serious 
14 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

than  that !     The  letter  I  shall  send  you  will 
be  strictly  conventional  and  not  too  lengthy 

—it  will  be  the  kind  that  I  might  write  to 
any  acquaintance  of  either  sex.  And  yet — 
yes,  that  is  the  thought  that  troubles  me 

—we  may  have  met  and  parted  for  the  very 
last  time.  Who  knows  how  long  one's  luck 
may  hold  good  up  Front  ?  The  shell  which 
has  my  name  written  on  it  may  be  already 
waiting  at  some  Hun  battery.  I  walk  along 
a  trench ;  there  is  a  rush,  a  swift  impact, 
blackness — that  is  the  end.  It  seems  in- 
decent that  we  should  have  said  good- 
bye so  cavalierly — just  a  shake  of  the 
hand,  a  "  Thank  you ",  for  happiness  and 
one  of  us  walks  out  into  Eternity  with 
everything  unuttered. 

Since  you  will  never  read  this,  1  will  play 
a  game ;  I  will  not  send  you  what  I  write, 
but  I  will  speak  the  truth  to  you  on  paper. 
If  I  live,  perhaps  some  day,  when  war  is 
ended,  you  will  receive  all  your  mail  at 
once.  If  I  "go  West"  before  that  can 
15 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

happen,  you  will  never  know  and  will  not 
be  hurt  by  my  love.  I  can  dream  about 
you  now ;  in  the  shell-holes  of  that  unreal 
world  it  will  seem  as  if  you  were  really 
mine. 

Perhaps  I  did  not  do  right  by  keeping 
silent ;  perhaps  my  silence  was  false  pride. 
I  was  talking  to  one  of  your  friends  the 
other  day  about  soldiers  getting  married, 
arguing  that  such  conduct  was  selfish.  She 
had  been  quite  quiet — hardly  interested. 
Suddenly,  with  an  unexpected  violence,  she 
turned.  "  I  wish  I  had  married  my  man," 
she  said.  I  learnt  her  story  afterwards.  She 
had  been  engaged  to  a  French  officer  and 
he  had  been  killed.  She  had  joined  the 
Red  Cross  and  ever  since  has  been  working 
her  way  grimly  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
Front.  Did  they  smile  as  quietly  as  we 
smiled  when  last  they  parted  ? 

So  many  happy  times  we've  had  in  the 
last  few  days — so  much  of  friendship.  I 
can  at  least  carry  the  memory  of  these 

16 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

things  back  ;  they  are  unspoilt  by  any  sadder 
knowledge.  To-night,  this  last  night,  was 
perfect.  We  went  to  our  favourite  cafe— 
the  one  we  visited  on  that  first  snowy 
Sunday.  We  stopped  so  long  talking  over 
dinner  that  by  the  time  we  reached  the 
opera  the  first  scene  was  ended.  We  didn't 
grieve  much.  At  least,  I  didn't ;  the  opera 
was  only  an  excuse  for  prolonging  our  time 
together.  How  quickly  the  evening  hurried  ! 
We  were  out  in  the  Boulevards  again,  and 
it  was  time  to  see  you  home.  What  fun  we 
had  in  searching  for  a  non-existent  taxi ! — 
then  at  last  we  bribed  the  driver  of  a  private 
car.  Did  you  expect  me  to  say  anything  in 
those  last  moments  ?  I  heard  myself  talking 
commonplaces  in  a  voice  which  did  not  seem 
my  own.  I  would  speak.  1  would  tell 
you.  We  talked.  It  was  too  late.  Other 
people  were  entering  the  foyer.  Of  a 
sudden,  after  so  much  intimacy,  we  became 
embarrassed.  "  Good-bye,"  you  said.  "Good- 
bye," I  repeated.  "  You  won't  forget  to 
17  c 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

write?"  You  withdrew  your  hand  and 
nodded.  Turning,  you  ran  up  the  stairs. 

I  am  glad  I  met  you.  I  am  glad  of  the 
pain  I  shall  carry  back  with  me.  My  great 
loneliness  before  was  that  no  woman  had 
come  into  my  life.  Now  I  shall  be  able  to 
think,  "  I  am  doing  this  for  her."  I  shall 
be  able  to  say,  "  Perhaps  she  knew  why  I 
did  not  speak.  Perhaps  she,  too,  is  remem- 
bering ? "  I  shall  tell  myself  stories  about 
you,  just  as  if  you  were  really  mine.  Your 
face  will  be  with  me,  the  sound  of  your 
voice  and  the  memory  of  your  gentleness. 
I  shall  be  a  better  soldier  because  we  have 
met.  If  I  die,  I  shall  die  satisfied. 

It  is  very  late.  Paris  will  soon  be  waking. 
I  have  to  leave  in  five  hours.  I  like  to  think 
of  you  as  still  near  me — so  near  that  I  could 
speak  with  you.  You  see  the  telephone  is 
still  a  temptation — but  then  there  are  no 
telephones  to  Paris  from  the  forward  guns. 


18 


II 

I  DID  N'T  have  much  time  to  catch  my 
train,  but  managed  to  stop  long  enough 
to  order  you  some  flowers.  They  were 
roses,  deep  red,  the  colour  of  the  ones  you 
wore  at  the  opera  on  our  last  night.  I 
bought  far  too  many  for  good  taste — I 
bought  the  way  I  felt.  At  the  last  minute 
I  forgot  to  enclose  my  card,  so  you  won't 
know  who  sent  them,  though  probably 
you'll  guess.  Once  before,  if  you  remember, 
I  sent  you  flowers  and  you  didn't  acknow- 
ledge them.  Was  it  because  you  were  afraid 
to  own  to  sentiment  ?  Until  they  fade, 
they'll  keep  you  reminded  of  me. 

Where  I  am  at  present  the  very  thought 
of  flowers  seems  oddly  out  of  place.  I  look 
down  at  myself,  plastered  with  mud,  and 
wonder  if  I  am  really  the  fellow  who  walked 

19 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

beside  you.  I'm  up  as  liaison  officer ;  our 
battalion  headquarters  are  in  a  dug-out 
down  which  the  rain  pours  from  the  swim- 
ming trench  outside.  Things  are  pretty 
lively ;  the  festive  Hun  is  making  his 
presence  felt.  Our  infantry  are  nervous  and 
expecting  a  raid.  There's  a  good  deal  of 
shelling  of  our  support  trenches  and  a  faint 
smell  of  gas.  Runners  keep  coming  in  with 
reports,  slithering  down  the  stairs  and  bring- 
ing in  the  mud.  A  candle  gutters  at  my 
elbow.  I'm  sitting  on  a  petrol  can  with  a 
folded  sack  for  a  cushion.  By  the  look  of 
things  I  shall  have  to  keep  awake  all  night ; 
we've  already  answered  one  S.O.S. 

How  far  away  you  seem — how  far  every- 
thing seems  that  I  have  loved.  Probably 
by  now,  you,  too,  are  doing  your  duty ;  I 

picture  you   at  J ,  with   your  refugee 

children  tucked   snugly   up  in   bed.     The 
Huns  gas  and  bomb   you  sometimes,  you 

told   me.     I   wish    selfishly- But  no, 

I'm  glad  that  you   are   playing  the  game 
20 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

i 

with  us  men.  I  suppose  all  the  pretty 
clothes  are  put  away — left  behind  in  Paris — 
and  you're  wearing  your  nurse's  uniform. 
You're  a  captain  in  rank,  aren't  youj 
Then  you're  my  superior,  for  I'm  only  a 
subaltern.  There  must  be  more  in  you 
than  I  have  guessed  ;  to  have  left  luxury 
and  come  into  danger  just  to  look  after 
other  people's  babies,  that  took  courage.  I 
never  thought  of  you  as  a  soldier  when  we 
were  in  Paris — you  were  only  the  most 
beautiful  girl  I  had  ever  met.  No,  more 
than  that — the  gentlest  and  the  kindest. 
There's  a  religion  about  you  when  I  think 
of  you  as  a  nurse.  There's  a  sacredness 
of  devotion,  which  goes  deeper  than  mere 
beauty. 

The  blot  which  ended  my  last  sentence 
was  not  entirely  my  fault.  A  shell  landed 
at  the  entrance  to  our  dug-out,  killed  one 
runner,  wounded  two  and  blew  the  candle 
out.  We've  just  finished  binding  up  the 
two  wounded  men ;  the  other  lies  in  the 
21 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

passage,  covered  by  a  blanket.  Poor  chap  ! 
He's  a  mere  boy  and  has  not  been  out  long. 
They  didn't  give  him  much  of  a  run  for  his 
money.  Such  accidents  are  largely  our  own 
fault.  We're  always  expecting  to  advance, 
so  we  do  very  little  to  the  trenches  which 
we  capture  and  occupy.  The  dug-outs  faced 
the  right  way  for  the  Boche  when  he  held 
them,  but  for  us  they  face  his  shells.  Cent 
la  guerre  f 

It's  not  taken  very  long  for  me  to  plunge 
into  action.  How  long  ?  Only  four  nights 
since  we  listened  to  William  Tell  and  bade 
each  other  that  unsatisfactory  farewell. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  railhead  on  my 
journey  back,  I  failed  to  discover  my  groom 
with  the  horses.  I  phoned  up  my  Division 
and  had  to  wait  till  close  on  midnight  before 
my  man  arrived.  It  was  a  cold  ride  to  the 
waggon-lines.  The  road  was  like  glass  in 
places  where  ditches  had  overflowed  and 
frozen.  We  had  to  walk  our  beasts  a  good 
part  of  the  way  ;  they  slithered  like  cats  on 
•22 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  tiles.  A  hard,  chiselled  moon  was  in 
the  sky  ;  the  ruined  country,  forbidding  and 
ghostly,  was  carved  into  deep  shadows.  1 
learnt  that  our  battery  had  only  moved  into 
its  new  position  that  day ;  consequently 
everything  was  at  sixes  and  sevens. 

It  was  nearer  three  than  two  in  the  morn- 
ing by  the  time  we  reached  our  waggon- 
lines.  The  horses  were  pretty  nearly  "  all 
in  "  with  the  amount  of  travelling  they  had 
done.  The  place  was  a  battered  village ; 
every  barn  was  full  of  troops,  and  for  the 
most  part  only  the  walls  of  the  houses  were 
standing.  We  roused  the  quartermaster 
with  difficulty  ;  he  wasn't  very  certain  as  to 
where  our  waggon-line  officer  had  his  billet. 
It  was  too  late  to  go  out  and  search  ;  I 
unrolled  my  sleeping-sack  and  got  into  it, 
only  removing  my  boots  and  tunic.  Rather 
a  sudden  change  from  the  luxury  of  the 
Crillon,  the  warm  baths  and  the  clean- 
sheeted  beds  !  Do  you  begin  to  understand 
why  it  is  that  you  seem  so  far  away  ? 
23 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

Changes,  even  more  sudden,  were  in  store 
for  me.  Shortly  after  six  next  morning  I 
was  wakened  by  an  orderly ;  he  had  come 
down  from  the  guns  to  order  me  to  report 
at  once.  My  toilet  didn't  take  very  long- 
that 's  one  advantage  of  not  undressing.  My 
poor  little  mare  was  once  more  saddled  ;  I 
slung  a  haversack  across  my  shoulder  and 
away  we  went  along  the  glassy  roads, 
scrambling  and  sliding.  The  orderly  in- 
formed me  on  the  way  what  he  supposed 
was  the  reason  for  so  much  haste.  One  of 
our  subalterns  had  been  sent  back  of  the 
lines  on  a  course  of  instruction  and  another 
had  collected  a  most  beautiful  Blighty  in 
the  leg.  As  a  consequence  our  major  was 
short-handed. 

I  found  the  battery  in  a  narrow  valley. 
It  is  one  which  by  name  you  know  well ; 
but  names  must  not  be  mentioned.  A  year 
ago  the  French  made  it  famous  by  the  fierce- 
ness of  their  fighting.  The  fighting  was  all 
hand-to-hand — so  close  that  bayonets  were 
24 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

out  of  the  question,  and  men  stormed  the 
heights  with  daggers  in  their  mouths. 
There  in  the  undergrowth  the  fallen  still 
lie  unburied.  The  snow  has  covered  them 
for  the  present,  but  you  can  feel  their  bones 
beneath  your  tread.  Part  way  down  the 
valley  is  a  little  clump  of  trees  among  which 
our  guns  are  hidden.  There  are  paths 
leading  through  the  island  wood,  covered 
with  trellis-work  to  hide  them  from  aero- 
plane observation.  I  left  my  horses  and 
went  on  foot  the  last  part  of  the  journey ; 
one  does  not  want  to  make  too  many  tracks 

—the  snow  shows  them  up  too  plainly. 

I  found  my  major  in  a  hole  sunk  beneath 
the  ground.     "  Glad  you've  come,"  he  said. 

'  Sorry  to  rush  you  into  harness  this  way, 
but  it  can't  be  helped.  It's  our  turn  to 
relieve  at  liaison.  I'll  give  you  what  infor- 
mation I  have  and  you  must  be  off  in 
quarter  of  an  hour." 

I     had    a    hurried    breakfast,    borrowed 
some  glasses,  for  mine  were  with  the  rest  of 
25 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

my  kit  at  the  waggon-lines,  collected  my 
telephonists  and  went  forward.  Here  I 
have  been  for  the  best  part  of  three  days. 
There  isn't  much  time  to  think  or  regret  in 
the  army — which  is  merciful.  I  am  taking 
pot-luck  with  the  infantry.  I  have  no 
blankets,  no  pillow,  no  nothing.  I  had  to 
leave  everything  behind  in  the  hurry.  At 
night  I  lie  down  on  chicken -wire,  spread 
across  supports,  and  fold  my  trench-coat 
beneath  my  head.  It  really  doesn't  matter 
much  not  having  blankets,  for  I've  had  to 
be  up  and  about  all  night.  The  only  time 
that  it's  safe  to  sleep  is  between  six  and 
eleven  in  the  morning.  I  must  leave  off— 
something  is  happening. 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  false  alarm.  Some 
one  got  nervous  in  the  front-line  and  let  off 
an  S.O.S.  rocket.  We  clapped  down  a 
barrage  on  the  Hun  trenches  ;  if  he  had 
intended  anything,  he  changed  his  mind. 
All  is  quiet  now,  except  far  to  our  left. 
26 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

where  one  can  hear  occasional  machine-gun 
fire  like  the  clicking  of  a  desultory  type- 
writer. From  the  enemy's  side  of  No 
Man's  Land  flares  keep  shooting  up ;  they 
look  like  taxis  speeding  through  the  black- 
ness. You  can  weave  all  kinds  of  fancies 
out  of  our  nights  if  you're  in  love  and  have 
an  imagination.  Those  white  flares,  ap- 
pearing, racing,  vanishing,  seem  to  me  a 
phantom-city  and  make  me  think  of  Paris. 
Sudden  memories  of  you  come  back- 
gestures,  moods,  sayings  which  1  scarcely 
noticed  at  the  time.  Do  you  remember 
that  night  when  we  went  to  the  Hotel 
Pavilion  together,  where  the  American 
soldiers  meet  and  you  did  canteen  work  ? 
Your  job  that  night  was  to  sell  cigarettes. 
I  sat  and  watched  you.  The  boys  came  in 
intending  to  buy  something;  they  hardly 
noticed  you  at  first.  Then  they  saw  you, 
stared  and  tried  to  spin  out  an  awkward 
conversation.  Decency  forbade  them  to  stay 
too  long  ;  but,  when  they  had  concluded 
27 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Sold,ier 

their  purchase,  they'd  return  to  buy  some- 
thing else.  They  really  returned  to  get 
another  sight  of  you.  You  cushioned 
your  face  in  your  hands  while  you  talked 
with  them ;  you  pretended  to  be  a  shop- 
woman,  but  quite  consciously  you  fasci- 
nated. You  fascinated  me  as  well.  There 
was  a  little  hat  you  wore  that  night ;  it 
was  of  velvet,  and  made  a  slanting  line 
across  your  forehead,  accentuating  the  fine- 
ness of  your  brows.  It  was  the  same  hat 
that  you  wore  when  we  met  so  briefly  in 
America. 

What  are  you  ?  You  are  drifting 
away  from  me, .  becoming  unreal  already. 
I  can't  associate  you  with  this  place  of 
imminent  death — you  are  so  much  alive. 
Did  you  care  for  me  at  all,  even  for  a 
moment  ?  Did  you  ever  picture  the  life  to 
which  I  was  going  ?  Was  I  only  an  inci- 
dent— some  one  transiently  amusing,  and 
perhaps  a  little  pleasant  ?  We  never  spoke 
of  what  lay  before  or  behind — we  merely 
28 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

enjoyed  our  handful  of  hours.  But  for  me 
there  was  always  poignancy  in  our  happi- 
ness. The  thought  was  constantly  with 
me  of  our  parting.  Something  within  me 
kept  warning,  "  It  is  the  end— the  end — 
the  end."  If  I  had  only  met  you  earlier, 
in  the  days  before  war  started,  I  could  have 
made  love  to  you  honourably.  But  not  now. 
I  turn  my  head  and  look  out  into  the 
passage  across  my  shoulder  ;  I  see  the  boots, 
the  form  beneath  the  blanket,  the  stretcher. 
He  was  a  man  once  ;  in  a  second  of  time 
what  lies  there  was  all  that  was  left. 
Perhaps  he,  too,  loved  a  girl.  Perhaps  he 
told  her.  How  much  better  if  he  had  kept 

silent.      And     yet "  I    wish    I    had 

married  my  man,"  your  friend  said.  It's 
a  problem.  Self-interest  dictates  that  I 
should  tell  you.  That  choice  might  be 
more  righteous  than  silence  ;  it  depends  on 
you.  But  because  the  choice  would  be 
selfish  I  distrust  it. 

Here  is  another  letter  which  will  never 
29 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

reach  you.  The  letter  you  will  get  will  be 
quite  different.  I  shall  address  you  by 
your  surname,  tell  you  briefly  that  I'm  back 
in  the  line,  and  ask  how  things  are  going 
with  you.  I  wonder,  will  you  write  ? 
When  I  asked  you  to  do  so,  was  that 
embarrassed  nod  of  your  head  a  polite 
evasion  of  a  refusal  ?  1  can  see  you  now 
as  you  ran  up  the  stairs.  You  didn't  look 
back.  Had  you  stayed  a  moment  longer  I 
might  have  spoken  the  words  which  were 
better  left  unsaid.  I  think  you  knew  that. 

It's  nearly  morning.  Nothing  will 
happen.  I'm  going  to  lie  down  and  get  a 
little  rest. 


30 


Ill 

THE  mail  has  just  come  in.  It  was 
brought  up  on  the  ammunition 
limbers.  We  heard  the  cry, 
"  Mail  up,"  and  then  the  running  feet  of 
the  men.  It's  queer  to  think  how  far  those 
letters  travel  and  how  safely  they  arrive. 
They  are  brought  up  to  us  under  shell-fire, 
through  gas,  by  runners,  pack  animals, 
limbers.  Since  no  movement  is  allowed 
near  the  guns  by  day,  they  invariably  reach 
us  at  night.  Before  ever  they  can  be  dis- 
tributed, the  ammunition  has  to  be  un- 
loaded so  that  the  teams  may  get  out  of 
range.  That  accounts  for  the  speed  with 
which  the  men  work.  They  form  a  chain, 
and  pass  the  shells  swiftly  to  the  gun-pits. 
Until  everything  is  safely  stored  away  the 
pages  from  their  mothers,  wives  and  sweet- 
hearts must  wait.  When  the  last  shell  has 
31 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

been  laid  in  its  rack,  they  scramble  to  the 
sergeant-major's  dug-out.  He  crouches 
over  the  bag  by  the  light  of  the  candle  and 
reads  aloud  the  name  on  each  envelope  or 
parcel.  Finally  the  bag  is  empty.  He 
turns  it  upside  down  and  shakes  it.  There 
will  be  no  more  news  from  home  till  next 
night.  The  crowd  scatters ;  the  blackness 
becomes  again  lonely. 

We  officers  have  to  sit  still  and  wait  for 
our  letters  to  be  brought  to  us  by  our 
servants.  It's  a  sore  trial  to  our  patience- 
part  of  the  price  we  pay  for  our  rank. 
To-night  I  made  sure  I  should  hear  from 
you.  At  the  cry,  "  Mail  up,"  I  forsook  my 
dignity  and  went  out  on  the  pretence  of 
seeing  that  the  teams  were  clear  of  the 
position.  It  was  such  a  night ;  the  stars 
and  snow  were  like  silver  inlaid  in  ebony. 
From  the  gun-pits  came  the  glow  of  fires. 
Men  were  already  sitting  round  them  in 
silence,  reading  by  the  light  of  the  jumping 
flames.  The  frost  on  the  duck-board 

32 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

crackled  beneath  my  tread.  AVar  seemed 
to  have  ceased  for  a  little  while  ;  for  a  little 
while  memories  travelled  back  to  affections 
and  quiet. 

My  servant  met  me  with  a  bundle  of 
letters.  "  The  officers'.  Will  you  take 
them,  sir  ?  " 

I  returned  to  the  hole  in  the  ground 
which  we  call  our  mess,  and  sorted  them 
out  on  the  table.  At  a  glance  I  saw  that 
there  was  nothing  from  you — my  three 
letters  were  in  known  handwritings.  A 
queer  way  to  tell !  You  mean  more  to  me 
than  anyone  in  the  world,  yet  I  have  never 
seen  your  handwriting.  That  brings  home 
to  me  vividly  how  much  we  are  strangers. 

Every  one  in  our  mess  has  something 
to-night.  Jack  Holt  has  made  the  biggest 
haul ;  there  are  four  from  his  wife.  He 
married  her  in  a  hurry  two  years  ago.  He'd 
only  known  her  a  week,  I  understand.  They 
had  a  four  days'  honeymoon  ;  then  he  came 
to  France.  He's  spent  about  thirty  days 
33  D 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

with  her  in  his  entire  life.  I  never  knew 
a  man  more  in  love  with  anybody ;  I'm  his 
best  pal,  so  he  tells  me  about  her.  Our 
major  got  only  one  letter.  His  girl  is,  like 
you,  in  a  French  Hospital.  I  have  an  idea 
that  she  plays  him  up  sometimes.  It's  in- 
credible that  anyone  should  trifle  with  our 
major.  He  doesn't  look  very  pleased  ;  he's 
puckering  his  brows.  Then  there's  Bill 
Lane  ;  he  didn't  come  off  so  badly.  He's 
a  nervous  kind  of  chap  and,  despite  that, 
plucky.  His  girl  is  in  England.  He  plans 
to  marry  her  on  his  next  leave.  He's  most 
frightfully  worried  lest  a  shell  should  get 
him  before  that  happens  ;  nevertheless,  he 
plays  the  game  to  the  limit  with  the  best 
of  us.  He's  smiling  now  as  he  turns  his 
pages.  Poor  old  thing,  for  once  his  mind 
is  at  rest ;  he's  happy.  And  then  there's 
Stephen,  our  expert  draughtsman.  No  one 
ever  writes  to  him.  He's  handsome  and 
the  best  of  fellows.  He  shows  no  excite- 
ment when  our  letters  are  distributed.  He 
34 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

expects  nothing.  While  we  read  ours,  he 
bends  where  the  light  spills  over  the  table, 
and  goes  on  ruling  arcs  into  his  map. 

Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  ?  I  had 
counted  the  days  and  made  allowances  for 
delays.  A  letter  might  have  come  yester- 
day ;  to-night  it  seemed  certain.  I  form 
so  many  conjectures — the  old  ones  which 
lovers  have  fashioned  so  many  times  to 
dispel  their  doubts.  You  were  busy.  You 
did  write,  but  forgot  to  post  it.  You  posted 
it,  and  it's  held  up  in  the  transit.  Then 
there  are  other  conjectures  of  another  kind  : 
that  you  do  not  care ;  that  the  knowledge 
that  I  care  would  come  to  you  as  a  surprise ; 
that  it  is  the  knowledge  that  I  care  that 
keeps  you  from  writing.  I  close  my  eyes 
and  concentrate  my  memories ;  your  face 
grows  clear  to  me  again.  When  I  re- 
member you  like  that  I  feel  your  kindness. 
You  may  not  care,  but  you  are  not  careless ; 
I  could  make  you  care  if  I  liked.  To  have 
known  you  as  I  have  is  more  than  I  had 
35 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

counted  on — more  than  I  deserved.  To 
have  had  love  come  to  one  in  the  midst  of 
a  war,  was  more  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected. All  my  life  I  had  waited  for  that ; 
then,  when  one  had  sacrificed  so  many 
human  affections,  it  happened.  It  was  a 
gift  from  the  gods.  Though  you  may  never 
know,  I  ought  to  be  contented. 

In  this  strange  world,  where  courage 
masquerades  as  duty,  we  have  left  all  hope 
behind.  To  hope  too  much  is  to  court 
cowardice.  To  be  brave  one  should  live  a 
day  at  a  time.  In  the  past  I  was  so  selfish, 
so  full  of  plans  for  happiness.  I  wanted  to 
live  so  strongly,  to  be  so  much,  to  do  so 
much,  to  hold  the  whole  world  in  my  hands, 
I  had  my  future  planned  out  for  forty  years. 
I  felt  as  though  the  destiny  of  all  the  gene- 
rations depended  on  what  I  should  do  with 
my  time.  And  then  this  war  came.  I  had 
never  dreamt  of  fighting.  The  thought 
that  I  should  ever  kill  anybody  was  incon- 
ceivable ;  it  was  worse  than  that — it  was  a 
36 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

terror.  One  had  to  sink  personality  and 
ambition  ;  throw  aside  everything  for  which 
one  had  been  trained  ;  take  up  a  way  of  life 
which  was  abhorrent  to  one's  nature  ;  place 
oneself  in  a  position  where  one  must  be  in- 
efficient ;  and  stand  the  strong  chance  of 
dying  shortly,  in  a  manner  which  seemed 
incommensurately  obscure  and  out  of  pro- 
portion ghastly.  And  why  ?  Because  Cal- 
vary had  repeated  itself ;  after  two  thousand 
years  to  die  for  others  had  become  again 
worth  while. 

I  must  not  entertain  hopes  about  you. 
To  do  so  would  be  weakening.  You  have 
happened  in  my  life — that  should  be  suffi- 
cient. To  have  snatched  one  last  glimpse 
of  loyalty  should  make  me  braver ;  it  should 
be  like  the  sacrament  pressed  against  the 
lips  of  those  about  to  die.  I  don't  think  I 
will  write  to  you  any  more,  my  dear.  These 
unposted  letters,  written  out  of  loneliness, 
are  becoming  a  luxury  which  is  dangerous. 
They  make  the  future  seem  too  valuable. 
37 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  begin  to  realize  how  sweet  life  is — how 
glorious  we  could  make  it.  I  would  rather 
be  at  rest  within  myself  if  I  am  called  upon 
to  say  good-bye.  You  ran  up  the  stairs 
without  turning  your  head  when  we  parted. 
That's  the  way  I  would  prefer  to  go  out 
of  life. 


IV 

A  LETTER  from  you  !  Such  a  jolly 
letter,  so  full  of  yourself!  It's 
just  as  though  you  were  at  my 
elbow  and  I  could  hear  your  voice.  It's  as 
though  you  let  me  take  your  arm  again,  the 
way  1  did  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  to 
help  you  over  the  slippery  places.  What  a 
reluctant,  stiffly  proper  arm  it  was  on  that 
first  occasion.  But  your  letter  !  I've  read 
it  how  many  times  ?  I  can't  count.  I 
think  I  know  it  all  by  heart,  and  yet  I  keep 
on  turning  back  to  my  favourite  passages. 
There's  the  one  in  which  you  describe  your 

first  introduction   to   the   town   of  J 

How  it  was  night,  every  light  extinguished 
and  the  streets  a  stagnant  river  of  blackness 
—no  sound,  no  life,  a  habitation  of  the  dead. 
Then  the  sudden  commotion  in  the  sky, 
39 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  rattle  of  machine-guns,  the  glare  of  a 
plane  descending  in  flames  and  the  crash 
of  bombs  on  the  house-tops.  Weren't  you 
frightened  ?  There's  no  hint  of  fear  in  your 
letter.  "  From  my  selfish  point  of  view," 
you  write,  "  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could 
have  happened.  It  taught  me  in  an  instant 
how  badly  I  was  needed  there."  A  gallant 
way  of  being  selfish  !  You're  just  as 
exultant  over  your  job  as  we  men  in  the 
front-line ;  it's  the  immense  chance  for 
sacrifice  that  intrigues  one.  I  suppose  even 
in  peace-times  the  chance  was  always  there, 
only  one's  eyes  were  blinded.  Perhaps  the 
sacrifice  demanded  wasn't  large  enough. 

I  ought  to  be  vastly  concerned  at  the 
risks  you  are  taking.  I'm  not ;  I'm  too 
glad  that  your  spirit  should  be  kindled  by 
danger.  To  save  France,  Joan  of  Arc 
charged  on  horseback  into  battle.  You  go 
with  less  drama,  but  with  an  equal  heroism. 
Your  charger  is  a  Ford  car.  You  have 
exchanged  your  armour  for  a  uniform  of 
40 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  Croix  Rouge  Americaine.  You  don't 
kill ;  you  rescue  children.  Frankly  I  prefer 
your  work.  If  you  could  look  over  my 
shoulder,  you  would  laugh  quietly  and  say 
that  1  make  too  much  of  what  you  are 
doing — that  it's  really  very  ordinary.  It's 
ordinary  here  in  France,  I  grant  you.  In 
France  laying  down  one's  life  for  some  one 
else  has  become  a  habit.  But  it  wasn't 
a  habit  where  you  came  from.  In  Fifth 
Avenue  it  wouldn't  have  been  difficult  to 
have  played  safe. 

What  a  romance  !  As  a  rule,  you  Ameri- 
cans aren't  a  romantic  nation.  You've 
such  terrific  common  sense.  Now  you,  for 
instance,  who  have  your  limousines  and 
your  several  houses,  come  three  thousand 
miles  to  do  a  servant's  work  and  perhaps  to 
die,  yet  you  don't  seem  to  thrill  at  yourself, 
You  belittle  your  heroism  by  taking  it 
utterly  for  granted.  The  French  are  so 
different.  Their  feet  are  never  on  the 
ground  ;  they're  for  ever  aeroplaning.  They 
41 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

view  their  present  in  the  light  of  history 
and  see  their  blood  pouring  like  a  crimson 
tide  down  the  future  ages.  We  English 
are  quite  conscious  of  our  splendour,  only 
we  don't  talk  about  it.  We  do  magnificent 
things  and  voice  them  in  the  language  of 
stable-boys.  We're  so  terribly  afraid  of 
self-praise  and  sentiment.  We  feel  in- 
tensely, but  we  keep  up  a  pretence  of  care- 
lessness. You  Americans  are  too  honest 
for  pretence.  You  go  in  for  rescuing  lives 
with  the  same  determination  that  you  apply 
to  tangoing,  only  somehow  you  don't  see 
the  difference.  It's  the  determination  with 
which  you  set  about  a  job  that  fascinates 
you  ;  you  don't  congratulate  yourselves  on 
the  job  itself.  You  never  lose  your  heads. 

I  spoke  of  sentiment  just  now  and  how 
we  English  hate  it  and  try  to  disguise  it. 
Take  myself:  Why  didn't  I  propose  to 
you  ?  Because  I  was  afraid  of  trading  on 
your  sentiment.  It's  a  difficult  thing  for  a 
girl  to  refuse  a  man  who  is  going  back  into 
42 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  line.  She  may  easily  be  deceived  into  a 
belief  that  she  loves  him,  whereas  her  only 
feeling  may  be  pity  for  him.  So  out  of 
shame  of  sentiment  I  refused  to  make  love 
to  you,  yet  because  of  sentiment  I  sit  in 
dirty  kennels  putting  an  immense  deal  of 
sentiment  down  on  paper — all  to  no  purpose. 

Life  has  always  puzzled  me ;  before  the 
war  I  used  to  be  afraid  of  it.  I  used  to 
hover  between  decisions,  look  too  far  ahead 
and  hesitate  to  achieve.  Military  discipline 
has  given  me  a  purpose — to  live  bravely, 
dare  cheerfully  and,  if  need  be,  to  die  grate- 
fully. So  you  see  how  meeting  you  has 
upset  my  plans.  You  can't  love  a  woman 
and  not  gaze  into  the  future.  You  can't 
feel  the  need  of  her  and  be  resigned  to  die. 

And  yet,  the  romance !  That  stirs  me. 
It's  mediaeval.  It  has  all  the  accompani- 
ments of  legend.  Most  men  meet  their 
wives  at  tennis-parties,  court  them  at 
theatres  and  marry  them  in  a  church.  Not 
so  you  and  I.  We  meet  by  accident  in 
43 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

America  at  a  point  of  parting ;  then  again 
in  Paris  without  design.  We  say  good- 
bye, both  going  to  do  a  soldier's  work. 
We  are  young,  and  the  world  should  lie 
before  us,  but  we  jeopardize  love,  youth 
and  the  world  for  an  ideal  which  consumes 
us.  Most  triumphant  of  all,  we  would  not 
have  things  otherwise.  By  a  strange  logic 
I  kill  and  you  cure,  yet  both  our  tasks  are 
compatible  with  the  same  purpose.  In 
putrescence  and  destruction  unimaginable 
your  scribbled  pages  flutter  to  me,  and  mine 
— some  of  them  reach  you,  but  not  all  that 
I  write.  Our  spirits  rise  above  the  pity  and 
the  squalor.  The  vilest  thing  in  history  is 
happening  about  us ;  but,  because  we  are 
here  to  combat  it,  our  spirits  grow  in  stature. 
Isn't  that  romance  ?  Doesn't  it  thrill  you, 
my  common-sense  little  American  ? 

And  how  do  you  think  your  letter  arrived 

— the  first  letter  that  you  ever  wrote  me  ? 

There's  a  long  ridge  runs  along  the  valley, 

very  steep  and  very  difficult  to  climb.     It's 

44 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

glassy  with  frozen  snow  at  present ;  there 
are  caved-in  trenches  running  straight  up 
its  side.  Scattered  beneath  the  bushes  dead 
men  lie  of  past  and  unrecorded  offences. 
Whether  Huns  or  Frenchmen,  after  a  year 
they  look  the  same ;  only  their  uniforms 
mark  the  difference.  At  the  top  of  the 
ridge  are  more  trenches — a  network  of  them. 
They  are  in  full  sight  of  the  enemy,  and  all 
of  them  decayed.  The  trench  which  I  occupy 
is  half-way  down  the  slope ;  it  can  only  be 
approached  by  night  or  under  cover  of  the 
mist  of  early  morning.  There's  an  old  dug- 
out, which  has  been  partly  bombed,  and  at 
the  top  of  it  a  spy-hole.  Through  the  spy- 
hole my  telescope  is  placed,  and  I  am  con- 
tinually watching  for  any  sign  of  movement 
in  the  Hun  country.  Yesterday  the  mist 
parted  suddenly,  and  I  caught  sight  of  the 
enemy  working.  I  guessed  the  map-location, 
telephoned  back  to  the  guns  and  waited  for 
the  mist  to  part  again.  I  caught  the  Boche 
in  the  open  with  shrapnel.  They  ran  and 
45 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  followed  them,  lengthening  my  range. 
There  was  wire  between  them  and  safety ; 
they  tried  to  scramble  through  it,  under  it, 
over  it,  and  there  I  nailed  them.  I  counted 
ten  dead  men ;  an  equal  number  must  have 
been  wounded.  In  peace-times  to  have 
beaten  a  dog  would  have  pained  me.  Here 
to  kill  men  does  not  trouble  my  conscience. 
Curious  !  I  sit  like  God  in  hiding,  watching 
the  world  and  arbitrarily  dictating  who  shall 
be  the  next  to  die. 

It  was  here  that  your  letter  reached  me 
very  early  in  the  morning.  My  servant 
brought  it  with  him  as  he  sneaked  in  with 
the  rations.  I  read  it,  as  I'm  writing  this, 
with  one  eye  on  the  enemy  and  the  other 
on  your  pages.  Probably  some  Hun 
artilleryman  behind  the  mist  is  doing  very 
much  the  same.  He  wants  to  live  just  as 
much  as  I  do;  he's  just  as  anxious  to  meet 
his  girl  again.  He  bears  me  no  enmity, 
yet  if  I  gave  him  the  chance  he  would  dis- 
passionately kill  me.  The  chief  horror  of 
46 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

our  modern  warfare  is  that  it  is  so  anonymous 
and  mechanical.  One  rarely  sees  the  hand 
that  strikes.  Cromwell's  Ironsides  faced 
their  opponents ;  they  went  into  battle 
chanting  the  Psalms  of  David.  We  steal 
out  of  our  trenches  behind  a  smoke-barrage 
and  do  all  our  slaughtering  in  silence. 

I  can't  focus  you  any  more  than  I  can 
focus  myself.  In  Paris  we  neither  recognized 
in  each  other  the  kind  of  persons  that  we 
really  were.  I  met  you  with  buttons  shined  ; 
we  chattered  socially,  were  easily  shocked 
and  dined  sedately.  You  were  perishably 
dressed ;  I  was  concerned  for  you  if  we 
couldn't  find  a  taxi  or  if  it  rained.  Now 
I  take  my  chances  and  wait  long  hours  to 
destroy,  while  you  wade  through  the  back- 
wash of  an  army.  We  can't  explain  our- 
selves. But,  after  so  much  that  was  trivial, 
isn't  it  good  to  be  doing  something  strong 
at  last  ? 

The  mist  is  rising.  I  shall  have  to  keep 
a  sharper  look-out.  Here's  another  letter 
47 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

to  keep  until  that  future  day  when  war  is 
ended  and  I  am  free  to  tell  you.  So  good- 
bye, my  Joan  of  Arc,  with  your  "  flivver," 
your  pale  rose  beauty  and  your  Croix  Rouge 
Americaine.  Joan  saw  her  visions  in  the 
woods  about  Domremy — you  in  the  hot- 
house palaces  of  New  York.  You  both 
answered  the  call  of  duty ;  your  spirit  is 
the  same,  though  centuries  divide  you. 


48 


I  HAVE  not  heard  from  you  for  three 
weeks — not  since  that  first  letter.  I 
have  no  right  to  expect  you  to  write 
to  me.  Why  should  you  ?  -  So  far  as  you 
were  aware,  I  was  only  a  passer-by.  If  I 
had  wanted  to  be  more  to  you,  I  could  have 
put  the  matter  to  the  test.  If  I  had  spoken 
to  you  on  that  last  night.  Yes,  and  if  I 
had  spoken  what  good  would  it  have  done 
to  either  of  us  ?  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
have  accepted  me.  And  yet — I  wish  I 
knew  that  you  felt  the  need  of  me.  In 
the  loneliness  of  this  existence  the  knowledge 
that  there  is  one  woman  who  cares  supremely 
helps. 

I  stop  to  read  what  I  have  written.     It 
is  unmanly.    It  is  self-pity — the  worst  enemy 
that  a  soldier  can  have.     The  only  way  one 
49  E 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

can  endure  is  to  be  forgetful  of  self — to 
consider  one's  body,  one's  pain,  everything 
personal  as  of  no  account.  The  game — the 
establishing  of  the  ideal  for  which  we  fight 
—is  the  only  thing  that  matters. 

There  comes  a  point  in  the  career  of  every 
fighting  man  when  he  can  endure  no  further. 
He  may  be  perfectly  healthy,  but  he  knows 
that  the  day  is  surely  coming  when  he  will 
break.  It  may  not  come  for  a  long  time ; 
but  the  certainty  that  the  break  is  coming 
fills  him  with  dread.  Inadvertently  he 
betrays  this  dread  in  little  ways.  Officers 
who  have  trusted  him  begin  to  watch  him— 
they  begin  to  doubt  his  courage. 

We  had  such  a  man  on  our  B.C.  party. 
The  B.C.  party  consists  of  expert  signallers 
and  linesmen,  chosen  out  of  the  battery  for 
their  pluck.  As  the  English  say,  they  have 
to  be  "  stout "  fellows.  Their  job  is  to  go 
forward  and  sometimes  over  the  top  with 
the  observing  officer  to  direct  fire.  At  all 
costs  and  at  whatever  risks,  they  have  to 
50 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

keep  up  the  communications  with  the 
battery.  If  the  line  goes  down,  no  matter 
how  bad  the  shelling,  your  linesmen  are 
expected  to  go  out  and  mend  it.  This  man 
of  whom  I  speak  was  a  linesman.  He'd 
been  in  the  war  from  the  first  and  had 
made  a  record  for  his  daring.  He  had 
stood  the  racket  for  two  years,  then  his 
nerve  began  to  go  from  him.  We  wouldn't 
believe  it  at  first ;  soon  it  became  patent 
to  everybody.  His  eyes  would  become 
vague.  You  could  see  him  making  an 
effort  not  to  run.  He  quivered  like  a  high- 
strung  horse  under  shell-fire.  Of  course  the 
just  thing  would  have  been  to  have  sent 
him  out ;  but  we  had  had  too  many  casualties 
and  couldn't  spare  him.  In  such  cases  the 
last  thing  one  dares  to  do  is  to  show  pity. 
Pity  is  contagious.  The  army  expects  every 
man  to  do  his  duty ;  it  takes  no  excuses, 
and  only  notices  him  when  he  fails.  So 
this  poor  chap,  who  had  been  a  hero,  had 
to  watch  himself  hourly  becoming  a  coward. 
51 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

Worse  still,  he  was  kept  wondering  just 
how  many  of  us  knew  it.  He  must  have 
been  very  brave,  for  he  played  the  game  to 
the  end. 

We  were  in  a  position  where  the  Hun 
pounded  us  day  and  night.  The  B.C. 
party's  quarters  were  under  a  ruined  house 
which  might  fall  at  any  moment.  The 
enemy  had  already  scored  several  direct  hits 
on  it.  Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  a  strafe, 
he  began  to  undress.  When  he  was  asked 
what  he  was  doing,  he  paid  no  attention. 
When  he'd  got  rid  of  every  stitch  of  cloth- 
ing, he  dashed  out  into  the  area  where  the 
shells  were  falling.  He  was  stark  mad. 

That's  why  one  must  beware  of  self-pity. 
I  mustn't  think  of  you  too  often.  I  must 
act  as  though  we  had  never  met.  I 
must— 

But  this  is  foolishness — one  can't  get  rid 

of  memory.      Since  I  can't   forget  you,  I 

must   make  your   memory  a   help.     Who 

was    it    said — Epictetus,   wasn't    it  ? — that 

52 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

every  burden  has  two  handles :  one  by 
which  it  can  be  carried,  and  one  by  which 
it  cannot  ?  The  wise  man  finds  the  handle 
by  which  he  can  carry  his  burdens.  Here's 
the  way  in  which  I'm  going  to  make  my 
love  for  you  help.  At  the  end  of  the  war, 
if  I  survive,  I'll  seek  you  out ;  that  promise 
shall  be  my  goal.  Meanwhile  I'll  cease  to 
keep  in  touch  with  you.  We're  both  en- 
gaged upon  an  adventure  equally  lonely 
and  too  fine  to  be  disturbed  by  selfishness. 

A  week  ago,  by  the  most  extraordinary 
of  accidents,  I  found  a  book  which  confirms 
me  in  this  decision.  There  was  some  enemy 
front-line  wire  that  had  to  be  cut  before  our 
infantry  made  their  attack ;  it  was  impossible 
by  consulting  contours  on  the  map  to  say 
from  what  point  one  could  view  it — you  cut 
wire  by  bursting  shrapnel  just  over  it  and 
stripping  it  off  the  stakes  by  the  impact  of 
the  bullets.  To  do  this  each  round  ought 
to  be  observed.  There  was  great  competi- 
tion among  the  officers  of  our  brigade  as  to 
53 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

who  should  get  the  credit  of  having  done 
the  job.  Our  only  chance  was  to  wander 
about  the  trenches  and  out  into  No  Man's 
Land,  if  need  be,  till  we  struck  a  point 
which  had  been  wrongly  put  in  on  the  map, 
from  which  our  line  of  vision  would  clear 
the  crest  and  let  us  see  the  entanglements 
on  the  other  side. 

1  had  a  hunch  that  I  knew  a  place  from 
which  I  could  see  it.  It  was  a  smashed-in 
Hun  gun-pit  in  the  debatable  ground 
between  Fritzie's  and  our  own  front-line. 
There  was  a  sap  leading  to  it,  but  it  was 
very  shallow.  Any  movement  there  was 
certain  to  attract  the  enemy  snipers.  One 
of  them,  whom  our  chaps  had  nicknamed 
"  Little  Willie,"  made  this  sap  his  speciality. 
In  order  that  I  might  not  afford  him  a 
target,  I  got  up  very  early  so  as  to  sneak  in 
when  the  mist  was  on  the  ground.  I  took 
one  telephonist  with  me  and  proposed  to 
spend  my  day  there,  do  my  job  and  get  out 
when  night  fell. 

54 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

To  cut  a  long  story  short,  I  got  into  the 
gun-pit  without  being  detected.  It  was  in 
a  beastly  mess  and  had  evidently  been 
the  scene  of  fierce  fighting.  There  was  a 
pile  of  dead  Germans  before  the  entrance, 
as  though  our  fellows  had  caught  them  as 
they  tried  to  rush  out.  They  lay  there 
with  their  arms  across  their  faces,  shielding 
their  eyes,  in  every  sort  of  pitiful  attitude. 
I'd  made  a  bad  bet  about  the  gun-pit,  for  it 
was  choked  with  debris  and  impossible  to 
enter.  There  was  a  dug-out  by  the  side, 
however,  with  stairs  leading  down  ;  though 
the  timbers  were  all  slantwise,  it  was  possible 
to  squeeze  past,  and  it  gave  us  concealment. 
The  visibility  was  still  wretched,  so,  having 
nothing  better  to  do,  we  began  to  investigate. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  there  was  a 
shored-up  chamber  with  two  bunks  made  of 
chicken  wire.  Leading  off  to  the  right  was 
a  tunnel,  so  knocked  about  that  you  had  to  go 
on  your  hands  and  knees  to  pass  through  it. 
When  you're  in  a  place  of  this  kind  it's 
55 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

always  well  to  employ  your  leisure  in  trying 
to  find  another  exit.  You  may  need  it. 
One  shell,  well  directed,  would  seal  up  your 
entrance.  So  down  on  our  hands  and  knees 
we  went  to  see  where  the  tunnel  led.  It 
wasn't  a  very  pleasant  business,  for  in  falling 
the  dirt  had  buried  quite  a  number  of  the 
old  inhabitants ;  as  a  consequence,  our 
crawling  was  rather  up  hill  and  down  dale. 
I  suppose  we  must  have  gone  twenty  yards 
when  we  came  to  a  second  chamber.  The 
air  was  foul  with  decay  and  damp.  There 
was  a  glimmer  of  light  far  up  above  us, 
which  evidently  came  from  a  caved-in  exit. 
I  turned  on  my  flash-light.  What  I  saw 
was  startling. 

A  big  Prussian  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
his  bunk.  He  must  have  been  dead  three 
weeks ;  but  he  looked  life-like.  On  the 
floor  was  a  book  which  had  fallen  from  his 
hand.  I  picked  it  up.  Incongruously 
enough,  its  binding  was  preserved  by  a 
newspaper  cover.  I  glanced  at  the  title : 

56 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

"The  Research  Magnificent,"  by  H.  G. 
Wells.  I  glanced  through  the  pages  ;  the 
first  thing  I  struck  was  a  marked  passage 
with  some  comment  scrawled  against  it  in 
German.  The  passage  read,  "  Like  all  of  us 
he  had  been  prepared  to  take  life  in  a  certain 
way  and  life  had  taken  him,  as  it  takes  all 
of  us,  in  an  entirely  different  way.  He  had 
been  ready  for  noble  deeds.  ..."  At  that 
point  the  marking  ended.  I  looked  at  this 
philosopher,  forgotten  and  entombed  deep 
underground.  His  beard  had  grown,  his  eyes 
were  sunken,  his  mouth  was  open,  his  head 
lolled  in  an  imbecile  fashion.  Across  his 
temple  was  a  wide  gash  where  the  fragment 
of  a  bomb  had  struck  him.  I  seemed  to 
hear  the  words  ticking  behind  his  forehead, 
"  He  had  been  ready  for  noble  deeds.  Life 
had  taken  him,  as  it  takes  all  of  us,  in  an 
entirely  different  and  unexpected  way."  I 
felt  sick  with  a  kind  of  physical  sorrow — not 
for  him  in  particular,  but  for  all  the  world. 
After  that,  the  crawl  back  across  the  hills 
57 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

and  dales  of  the  pitch-black  tunnel  was 
horrible. 

I  sat  on  the  topmost  stairs  at  the  entrance 
and  turned  the  pages.  I  kept  on  wondering 
how  the  Prussian  had  come  by  a  novel  that 
had  only  been  published  since  hostilities 
commenced.  Then  I  discovered.  Other 
passages  were  marked  ;  beside  the  markings 
were  pencilled  comments,  some  of  them  in 
English,  some  in  German,  but  in  different 
hands.  As  I  studied  the  passages  I  found 
that  most  of  them  had  reference  to  fear  and 
its  conquest.  "  The  beginning  of  all  aristo- 
cracy is  the  subjugation  of  fear."  This  was 
heavily  underlined. 

And  again  this  passage,  "  When  I  was  a 
boy  I  thought  I  would  conquer  fear  for 
good  and  all.  It  is  not  to  be  done  that 
way.  One  might  as  well  dream  of  having 
dinner  for  the  rest  of  one's  life.  Each  time 
and  always  I  find  that  it  has  to  be  conquered 
afresh."  The  Englishman's  pencilled  com- 
ment is  very  typical,  "  Quite  so.  But  you 
58 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

oughtn't  to  admit  it."  The  comment  of  the 
Prussian,  who  killed  the  English  owner  and 
then  re-edited  his  reflections,  fills  the  entire 
margin  and  runs  over  on  to  the  next  page. 
It  is  too  guttural  for  my  comprehension. 

Here  is  a  last  selection.  The  German 
keeps  silent  this  time,  but  the  Englishman's 
comment  makes  it  worth  recording.  The 
marked  portion  reads  as  follows  :  "  In  his 
younger  days  Benham  had  regarded  Fear 
as  a  shameful  secret  and  as  a  thing  to  be 
got  rid  of  altogether.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  to  feel  fear  was  to  fall  short  of  aristo- 
cracy. But  as  he  emerged  from  the  egotism 
of  adolescence  he  came  to  realize  that  every 
one  feels  fear,  and  your  true  aristocrat  is 
not  one  who  has  eliminated,  but  one  who 
controls  and  ignores  it."  The  English- 
man's note  is,  "  Bravo,  old  cock !  Now 
you're  talking  ! " 

The  mist  had  not  cleared  and  showed  no 
sign  of  clearing,  so  there  in  No  Man's  Land 
on  this  winter's  morning  I  gave  myself  up 
59 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

to  studying  the  problem  of  noble  living  as 
worked  out  in  the  career  of  an  individual 
named  Benham. 

Have  you  ever  caught  a  sudden  reflection 
of  yourself  and  thought,  "  What  an  absurd 
person  !  Good  Lord,  can  I  be  like  that  ?  " 
For  a  moment  you  judge  yourself  without 
affection,  as  you  would  a  stranger.  That's 
the  way  I  felt  in  the  reading  of  this  book. 

This  Benham  was  a  prig  in  the  most 
charitable  sense  of  the  word.  I  picture  him 
with  a  white  face  and  a  bulging  forehead— 
too  many  brains  and  too  little  body.  At 
an  early  date  he  discovered  that  there  was 
something  wrong  with  himself,  but  he  attri- 
buted the  reason  to  a  lack  of  harmony  in 
the  world.  He  at  once  conceived  that  the 
only  way  to  mend  himself  was  to  set  about 
mending  the  world.  Of  course  the  world 
refused  to  be  mended — it  always  does.  It 
invariably  crucifies  its  Christs.  This  Benham 
actually  dreamt  that  he  might  be  a  second 
Christ — a  kind  of  god-man  who,  by  right  of 
60 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

intellect  rather  than  of  love,  could  force 
nations  into  magnanimity.  The  trouble  was 
that  in  his  own  small,  daily  decisions  he 
was  neither  magnanimous  nor  god-like ;  he 
wasn't  even  decided.  He  was  afraid  ;  though 
he  made  heroic  efforts,  he  never  conquered 
fear  to  the  day  of  his  death.  He  had  no 
sympathy  with  children,  but  he  babbled  with 
swimming  eyes  about  his  own  childhood. 
He  could  make  women  love  him,  but  he 
always  coveted  the  affection  that  was  out  of 
sight ;  he  had  no  patience  to  hold  the  affec- 
tion he  had  won.  He  yearned  to  save  men 
in  masses,  but  made  no  attempt  to  save  the 
neighbour  who  was  within  reach.  Always, 
always  he  wasted  his  good  impulses  on 
abstractions.  He  was  eternally  educating 
himself  for  a  splendid  self-abnegation  which 
he  never  had  the  grit  to  accomplish.  Instead 
of  achieving  an  isolated  kindness,  he  embit- 
tered himself  with  the  sorrow  of  continents. 
His  dream  was  to  make  himself  king  of  the 
world  ;  in  the  pursuit  of  his  dream  he  pushed 
61 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

aside  every  tender  and  ordinary  human 
affection.  He  died  a  bankrupt  at  heart, 
absurdly  fluttering  a  waiter's  napkin  to 
prevent  soldiers  from  firing  on  rioters.  On 
the  charger  of  his  imagination  he  fancied 
himself  as  riding  through  Time,  upholding 
a  banner  woven  from  the  clouds.  Actually 
all  he  had  been  doing  was  waving  a  waiter's 
napkin  at  Jupiter,  to  prevent  him  from 
hurling  thunderbolts.  When  Jupiter  failed 
to  obey  him  he  was  extraordinarily  annoyed. 
I  make  fun  of  this  fantastic  Benham,  but 
in  past  days  I  wasn't  so  very  unlike  him. 
If  it  comes  to  that  there  are  streaks  .of 
Benham  in  me  now.  I  write  you  letters 
which  you  will  never  receive,  recording  the 
fact  that  I  love  you  ;  but  I  fail  to  tell  you. 
I  persuade  myself,  as  Benham  would  have 
persuaded  himself,  that  it  is  honest  and  fine 
not  to  confess.  I  don't  do  the  passionately 
human  thing — the  thing  that  Jack  Holt  did 
when  he  won  his  wife.  I  act  idealistically  but, 
God  knows,  I'm  by  no  means  certain  of  my 
62 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

motives.  You  see  I  have  always  been  able 
to  view  every  question  from  at  least  a  dozen 
sides.  I  speculate  where  a  baser  man  would 
act ;  it  is  my  infirmity.  Life  has  gone  by 
me.  No,  not  gone  ;  it  went  by  me  until  this 
war  broke  out. 

It  went  by  me  in  such  curious  ways. 
Now  that  I  live  constantly  in  the  presence 
of  death  I  can  see  why  life  eluded  me ;  I 
was  afraid  of  soiling  my  dreams  with  reality. 
As  my  father's  son  I  got  into  Parliament 
as  soon  as  I  left  Oxford ;  I  believed  that  I 
could  solve  the  problem  of  poverty  in  a 
decade.  I  discovered  that  politics  are  em- 
ployed for  personal  ends ;  that  statesmen 
usually  think  nationally  only  when  votes 
are  necessary.  In  protest  I  resigned  my 
seat  and  went  to  live  in  the  slums  for  a 
while.  There  I  learnt  that  poverty  is 
disturbingly  contented,  and  that  philan- 
thropy is  as  untidy  as  it  is  unrewarding. 
Goaded  by  fierce  contempt  for  self-com- 
placency, I  went  to  Russia  to  sympathize 
63 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

with  the  revolution  that  was  brewing. 
Again  I  undeceived  myself.  My  sympathy 
was  not  wanted.  I  found  young  men 
plucking  out  their  eyes,  posing  as  martyrs, 
and  saying  that  the  Czar  had  blinded  them. 
There  are  people  in  the  world  who  are  born 
to  mutilate  themselves  and  invariably  blame 
some  one  else.  Don't  you  see  how  I  was 
learning  that  it  isn't  the  thing  you  plan  to 
do,  but  the  thing  you  are  inside  yourself 
that  counts  ?  And  life,  as  I  say,  was  going 
by  while  I,  in  my  earnestness  that  future 
centuries  might  be  better,  was  neglecting 
the  dear,  simple,  daily  loyalties. 

Then  this  war  broke  out,  stripping  us  of 
our  sham  refinements  and  clothing  us  in 
the  armour  of  duty.  We  hadn't  known 
how  to  live  wisely ;  God  restored  to  us  the 
chance  to  die  for  something  worthy.  He'd 
grown  tired  of  seeing  us  charging  wind- 
mills, so  He  set  over  against  us  the  mus- 
tered hosts  of  hell.  How  real  everything 
has  become  of  late  !  All  the  ghosts  of 
64 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

distrust  and  derision  have  vanished.  Men's 
souls  gleam  in  their  eyes.  We  have  re- 
gained the  old  primitive  strength  of  the 
saints  to  strike  sin  where  we  find  it.  We 
no  longer  doubt  when  the  sky  is  over- 
shadowed that  heaven  floats  above  the 
clouds. 

"  Like  all  of  us  he  had  been  prepared  to 
take  life  in  a  certain  way  and  life  had  taken 
him,  as  it   takes  all  of  us,  in   an   entirely 
different    way.      He  had    been  ready  for 
noble  deeds  ..."     As  I  sat  there  in  hiding 
in   No  Man's  Land,    I   reflected   on  these 
words.     The  Prussian  had  pondered  them 
before  he  died,  and  the   Englishman   who 
had  possessed  the  book  before  that.     They 
both  had  been  ready  to  do   noble   deeds  ; 
they  both  had  tried,  and  they  were  enemies. 
In  the  old  days  I  would  have  puzzled  over 
this  inconsistency,  striving  vainly  to  find  a 
reconciling  argument.     Now,  in  the  larger 
kindness  which  I  have  gained,  I  forgot  the 
motive   in    remembering    the   sacrifice.      I 
65  F 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

wanted  the  Prussian  to  know  that  I  felt 
like  that. 

The  mist  had  not  cleared,  and  it  was 
lunch-time.  Crawling  through  the  tunnel, 
I  re-entered  the  dismal  chamber  and  placed 
a  portion  of  my  meal  beside  him.  I  felt 
that  this  would  tell  him.  Death  had  elimi- 
nated enmity.  It  was  as  though  we  had 
broken  bread  together. 


66 


VI 

AT  last  a  letter,  and  a  long  letter.  I 
found  it  at  the  guns,  when  I  got 
back  from  up  front  this  morning. 
It's  exactly  the  kind  of  day  when  one 
would  expect  one's  luck  to  change.  The 
skies  are  high  and  fleecy ;  the  mud  is  dry- 
ing up  ;  there's  a  touch  of  premature  spring 
in  the  air.  It's  the  kind  of  day  when  one 
expects  to  find  primroses  in  London ;  and 
in  New  York — what  kind  of  flowers  do  they 
sell  in  the  street  there  ?  Some  day,  when 
war  is  over,  you  shall  take  me  down  Fifth 
Avenue  and  we'll  find  out.  It's  the  kind 
of  day  when  a  man  plans  and  looks  ahead, 
and  feels  in  his  bones  that  he's  going  to  live 
for  ever. 

By  the  time  we  meet  in  New  York,  the 
clothes  that  you  wore  in  Paris  will  be  out 
67 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

of  fashion.     I  wonder  how  you'll  be  dressed. 
Do   you    think,  just    to    please    me,   you 

might ?     But    no,    that's    asking    too 

much.     No  girl  would   wear   clothes  two 
summers  old  to  please  any  man. 

So  you've  seen  something  of  what  war 
is  like  !  You  can't  tell  me  very  plainly, 
but  I  can  read  between  the  lines  and  guess. 
A  month  ago  we  heard  rumours  that  the 
Huns  had  made  a  break  in  a  sector  held  by 
the  French.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that 
you  might  be  there.  Thank  God,  it  didn't. 
It's  easy  to  be  brave  for  one's  self,  but  to 
have  known  that  you  were  in  danger  would 
have  been  intolerable.  You  remember  that 
I  protested  in  Paris  that  they  were  placing 
your  hospital  too  near  to  the  front-line.  I 
nearly  made  you  angry  with  protesting ; 
you  were  so  eager  to  share  the  game  with 
us  men.  I  remember  how  you  said,  "  Our 
lives  are  of  less  value  than  you  men's— 
there  are  more  of  us  in  the  world.  If  they 
can  afford  to  let  you  get  killed,  why 
68 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

shouldn't  we  be  allowed  to  take  our  chance 
of  death  ? "  I'm  proud  of  you — immensely 
proud. 

I  understand  now   the   reason   for   your 
long   silence.     After    the   order    came   out 
for  the  evacuation  of  the  civil   population 
you,     who     remained    behind,    were     not 
allowed  to  write.     By  all  accounts,  even  if 
you  had  been  allowed,  you  were  too  busy. 
I'm  trying  to  picture  all  the  hazard  of  those 
exciting  days  when  the  Huns  were  breaking 
through,  and  nobody  knew  to  what  depth. 
I   can  see  you  racing  to  and   fro   in  your 
Ford  ambulance,  carrying  your  babies  out 
of  the  shelled   town   and,  when  that  was 
done,  volunteering  to   stay   behind  in  the 
thick  of  it  to  tend  the  wounded.     You've 
seen  troops  marching  up  singing,  with  the 
certainty  in  their  hearts  that  they  were  going 
to  die.    You've  stood  by  the  road  and  cheered 
them ;  they  blew  kisses   to  you,  laughing 
gaily,  and  you  blew  kisses  back.     For  many 
of  them   you   were  the   last  woman   they 
69 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

would  see  in  this  world.  How  simple  and 
happy  everything  becomes  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  sacrifice  !  1  can  see  you  in  your 
uniform  of  the  Croix  Rouge  Americaine, 
the  white  veil  blowing  back  and  your 
young  face  ecstatic,  while  all  in  front,  in 
an  abandon  of  heroic  exaltation,  the  cease- 
less tide  of  doomed  men  flowed  by. 
You've  seen  that  same  tide  return — the 
crimson  ripples  of  what  was  left  of  it :  men 
without  hands,  or  eyes  or  legs,  limping, 
carried  on  stretchers,  hurried  in  the  ambu- 
lance. I  think  the  most  poignant  thing 
you've  told  me  is  of  the  man  without  lips 
who  pressed  your  dress  against  his  bandages 
in  gratefulness.  Could  I  see  you  I  should 
find  you  changed,  you  say ;  the  sleepless 
nights  have  done  their  work.  I  expect  I 
should  find  you  changed — as  metal  is  tried 
in  the  furnace. 

So  your  friend  at  last  has  had  her  desire. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  sharp  whisper,  like 
a  sob  stifled,  in  which  she  said,  "  I  wish  I 
70 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

had  married  my  man. "  Since  her  lover  was 
killed  in  action,  she  was  always  thrusting 
forward,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  zone  of 
danger.  She  must  be  happy  now  that  she 
has  shared  his  end.  Don't  you  think  there 
was  a  touch  of  conscience  in  her  obsession  ? 
Perhaps  he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him 
before  he  went  and  she  refused  him.  It 
seemed  to  me  like  that.  It  was  fine*  of 
her  to  protect  the  dying  poilu  with  her 
body  from  the  falling  shells.  Fine  and 
fruitless  !  As  you  say,  he  would  have  died 
anyhow.  The  sheer  wastefulness  of  her 
death  makes  it  the  more  heroic. 

She  did  not  look  that  type  of  girl.  She 
impressed  me  at  first  as  being  hard  and 
managing  and  selfish  ;  there  was  too  much 
drive  in  her  character.  Probably  she  wasn't 
always  like  that.  The  one  and  only  time 
that  she  betrayed  her  inner  gentleness  was 
when  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  had  married  my 
man."  You  may  call  war  damnable,  a  vile 
misuse  of  courage — there  is  nothing  too  bad 
71 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

that  can  be  said  about  it — and  yet,  as 
nothing  else  does,  it  teaches  us  how  to  die 
for  our  friends.  It  has  a  knack,  which 
peace  had  never  learned,  of  uncovering  the 
splendour  in  commonplace  persons. 

And  now  you're  again  in  comparative 
safety.  I  wonder  how  comparative.  You're 
once  again  nursing  refugee  babies  behind 
the  lines.  Little  Gaston,  you  say,  is  your 
favourite.  He's  six  days  old,  has  the  face 
of  an  old  man  of  eighty  and  the  most 
heavenly  blue  eyes.  You  live  in  an  old 
caserne,  and  "  it's  dreadfully  draughty  and 
most  horribly  unsanitary,"  and  you're  terri- 
fically happy. 

Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret  ?  When  I  was 
with  you  in  Paris  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
you  wouldn't  stick  this  work.  It  was  obvious 
to  me,  when  you  spoke  of  "going  up  the 
line,"  that  you  hadn't  the  foggiest  notion  of 
to  what  you  were  going.  You  looked  so 
delicate,  so  frail,  so  beautiful.  You'd  never 
had  to  work  in  your  life.  You'd  been 
72 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

dressed  and  conveyed  from  point  to  point, 
and  hadn't  the  least  conception  of  the 
patience  that  it  takes  to  do  anything  well. 
There  was  an  expensive  look  of  innocence 
about  you  that  one  doesn't  associate  with 
the  ghastly  knowledge  of  battle-fields.  You 
hadn't  realized  the  horror  of  the  Western 
Front — no,  nor  the  glory  of  it ;  you  had 
too  complete  an  air  of  rest.  Often  as  I 
sat  beside  you  at  a  theatre  or  in  a  cafe  the 
thought  would  come  to  me,  "  How  will  all 
these  men  who  are  laughing  and  enjoying 
themselves  look  in  six  months'  time  ? "  I 
could  see  them  lying  out  in  No  Man's  Land, 
like  sacks  that  had  been  dropped  from  a 
waggon.  I  could  see  them  with  their  faces 
hideously  transformed,  staring  up  unseeing 
at  the  changing  sky.  She  doesn't  know  these 
things,  I  thought.  She  must  never  know 
them.  Like  every  man  who  loves  a  woman, 
the  desire  of  my  heart  was  to  shut  you  up 
in  a  cage  of  unreality.  How  wrong  I 
should  have  been,  for  then  your  flower-body 
73 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

would  never  have  become  the  scabbard  of 
the  sword  of  compassion.  You  are  a  woman 
for  a  soldier  now ;  you  were  a  plaything 
then. 

You  spoke  of  this  once,  I  remember, 
saying  how  difficult  it  was  to  have  been 
born  rich.  Everything  had  been  done ; 
you  weren't  supposed  to  do  anything. 
You  wanted — you  didn't  know  what  you 
wanted ;  but  it  must  be  something  satisfy- 
ing and  splendid.  Just  to  slip  into  matri- 
mony and  be  your  mother  all  over  again 
wasn't  satisfying;  you  wanted  to  get  your 
feet  off  the  ground,  to  aeroplane,  to  bump 
your  head  against  the  stars,  to  crash  and 
set  out  afresh  in  quest  of  the  playground  of 
celestial  bodies.  You  achieved  all  this  in 
a  better  way  when  you  stayed  in  the  city 
pounded  by  Hun  shells,  and  smiled  at  the 
boys  who  marched  up  to  die. 

Do  we  really  suffer  ?  I  doubt  it.  Mud 
and  wounds  and  torture  and  discomfort, 
what  do  they  matter  when  the  spirit  flames 
74 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

so  high  ?  You  and  I,  both  in  our  separate 
ways,  were  afraid  of  life ;  now  that  we  are 
bankrupt  in  a  righteous  cause  we  are  con- 
tented. It's  a  gallant  world — the  more 
gallant  because  we  are  parted ;  for  me  that 
is  the  supreme  sacrifice.  One  gets  a  lust 
for  saying  "  No  "  to  oneself  when  once  one 
starts  the  habit ;  one  gets  scientifically 
curious  to  discover  just  what  are  the  limits 
to  one's  self-denial. 

When  you  write  of  children,  I  think  I 
have  reached  mine.  I  sit  here  behind  the 
gun-pits,  picturing  your  arms  about  the  little 
bodies  and  the  little  heads  pressed  against 
your  breast.  You're  a  girl,  so  slim,  so  much 
like  sculptured  ivory.  There's  an  ethereal 
and  indefinable  purity  about  you.  When 
I  picture  you  with  little  children,  I  think 
of  the  future  which  may  never  be  ours. 
For  a  moment  I  become  rebellious.  Dead 
men's  children  are  their  only  certain  immor- 
tality. I  have  seen  so  many  men  rise  up 
in  the  morning  and  lie  still  at  night. 
75 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

Such  thoughts  are  unpardonable.  They 
have  no  right  to  be  set  down. 

"  Good-bye,"  you  write.  "  Because  I 
have  seen  what  war  is  like,  I  beg  you 
to  take  especial  care  of  yourself.  Don't 
run  more  risks  than  you  can  help."  But, 
my  dear,  to  run  risks  one  is  supposed  to 
avoid  is  what  I  am  here  for.  To  do  more 
than  is  expected  of  one  is  the  proof  of  a 
good  soldier.  I  beg  you,  however,  not  to 
stay  in  any  more  shelled  towns  so  long  as 
there's  a  decent  chance  to  get  out. 


76 


VII 

MY   mind  is  full  of  you  to-day.     I 
have    been    trying  to   remember 
your  face,  the  tones  of  your  voice 
—all  the  things  that  make  you  you  so  es- 
sentially.    At  this   distance,  with  so  little 
hope   of  seeing  you   till   war  is   ended,   I 
grow  afraid  lest  my  imaginings  should  over- 
lay the  person  you  are  really.     You  know 
how  it  often  is  with  Old  Masters  when  they 
begin  to  fade;    some  lesser  man  takes  in 
hand  to  restore  the  Master's  work  and  alters 
the  whole  sincerity  of  what  was  intended. 
1  want  you  to  be  so  perfect  in  my  memory 
that    I   stand   the  risk  of  making  you  in- 
human. 

At  first,  when  I  fell  in  love  with  you,  I 
almost   resented   your   intrusion ;    not   that 
you   did   actually  intrude,  for  even  up  to 
77 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

this  day  you  have  not  so  much  as  raised 
your  little  finger.  If  I  stopped  writing  for 
any  reason,  I  should  not  hear  from  you 
again.  You  are  like  La  Giaconda  in  your 
smiling  aloofness.  You  lure  without  effort 
and  are  silent. 

I  wanted  to  be  so  strong  in  this  war,  so 
single  of  purpose,  and  brave  for  hardship. 
I  didn't  want  to  have  any  regrets  if  the 
hour  came  for  the  final  sacrifice.  Long 
ago,  when  we  all  went  about  our  own  selfish 
business  of  money-gathering  and  fame-get- 
ting, I  used  to  distrust  love  as  a  kind  of 
sickness,  and  yet  all  the  while — I  must  tell 
the  truth — I  longed  for  it  desperately.  Love 
always  avoided  me.  I  was  too  intent  on 
my  career.  There  were  such  big  things  to 
do  with  life.  "  Love  will  come  later,"  I 
told  myself,  "  when  I  have  time."  I  have 
always  been  wantonly  an  idealist,  forgoing 
the  things  I  might  have  had  for  the  things 
which  are  out  of  sight.  I  wanted  to  have 
something  so  worth  giving  to  a  woman; 
78 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

perhaps  that  was  why  I  was  willing  to 
delay. 

And  then  this  war  came.  I  thanked  God 
that  I  was  free  to  take  my  chances  without 
jeopardizing  the  happiness  of  another.  For 
two  years  I've  stood  it,  running  my  risks 
alone  ;  and  now  there's  you. 

In  the  old  days  I  used  to  watch  attacks 
with  mixed  sensations.  I  used  to  look  at 
dead  men,  wondering  whether  they  had 
children.  It  wasn't  a  dead  man  that  I  saw 
on  a  battle-field,  but  the  tragedy  of  unborn 
children.  I  felt  that  tragedy  for  myself; 
I  hungered  to  have  a  youngster  who  would 
be  myself  over  again  long  after  I  was  dead. 
That  was  the  selfish  part  of  me — the  cry- 
baby part,  if  you  like ;  the  part  that  never 
grows  any  older  than  when  a  mother  used 
to  nurse  it.  That  part  waited  half-starved 
inside  me,  just  as  the  refugee  children  wait 
for  your  coming.  It  ceased  crying  for  the 
first  time  when  I  had  met  you.  One 
gets  tired  at  this  fighting-game — tired  of 
79 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

enduring,  tired  of  being  cruel,  tired  of  the 
effort  to  be  brave.  Then  a  quaint  little 
picture  forms  in  my  brain  of  you  and  me 
alone  in  a  darkened  room.  There's  a  fire 
burning.  You're  sitting  in  a  great  arm- 
chair ;  I'm  crouched  like  a  child  on  the 
floor  beside  you,  my  head  against  your 
knees  and  your  hands  for  my  toys.  Not  a 
soldier's  dream !  But  one  grows  weary  of 
being  strong ;  one  wants  to  be  loved  so 
badly,  just  once  while  there  is  time. 

These  are  absurd  words  to  write  you.  By 
no  hint  have  I  warned  you  that  you  are  all 
my  life.  You  may  not  care  for  me ;  I  have 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  you  do. 

And  yet,  for  men  in  the  mass,  love  seems 
by  no  means  rare.  There's  hardly  a  driver 
or  a  gunner  in  my  battery  who  has  not  his 
Flo  or  his  Dorothy.  I  have  to  censor  their 
letters,  so  I'm  pretty  well  acquainted  with 
the  heart-affairs  of  my  men.  Some  of  them 
are  regular  Don  Juans,  making  the  same 
protestations  of  undying  affection  in  half  a 
80 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

dozen  different  directions.  Most  of  the 
envelopes  bear  the  mystic  letters  S.W.A.K. 
—which  means,  being  interpreted,  "  Sealed 
With  A  Kiss  "—a  totally  inaccurate  state- 
ment, since  sealing  them  is  a  part  of  my 
duty. 

Poor  lads,  how  many  of  them  have 
written  that  lie,  "  Sealed  With  A  Kiss  "— 
written  it  for  the  last  time  for  some  girl  to 
pin  her  heart  to. 

I  want  you  in  such  a  childish  sort  of  way 
to-day — not  the  way  in  which  a  man  usually 
wants  a  woman.  It's  the  feel  of  you  I 
need,  the  protection,  the  security — the  sure 
knowledge  that  I  am  yours,  whatever  hap- 
pens. There's  a  verse  of  Matthew  Arnold's 
I  remember ;  I  used  rather  to  sneer  at  him 
when  I  read  it,  but  now  I  understand : 

"  Come  to  rne  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again ; 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day." 

I  suppose  if  you  had  met  Matthew  Arnold 

81  G 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  moment  after  he  had  written  those 
lines,  he  would  have  looked  self-contained 
and  icy.  To  the  outside  world  he  seems 
always  to  have  appeared  a  perambulating 
refrigerator.  And  yet  he  could  cry  out 
like  that — like  a  child  who  has  wakened  in 
the  night  and  is  lonely. 

A  child  who  has  wakened  in  the  night  and 
is  lonely  !  That's  what  I  am.  I  was  asleep  ; 
you  stole  to  my  bed  and  roused  me,  and 
now  you've  gone  away.  It's  you  that  I 
want — the  feel  of  your  hands  touching 
mine  in  the  darkness  and  your  arms 
about  me. 

If  I  give  way  like  this  I  shall  be  telling 
you,  and  I  must  not  tell.  I  must  forget, 
as  you  have,  perhaps.  I  must  externalize 
myself — see  myself  as  I  am — a  mere,  un- 
important cog  in  a  vast  machine  which  is 
struggling  for  the  world's  redemption.  Some 
one  who,  without  altering  the  course  of 
nations,  may  be  dead  to-morrow.  A  man, 
muddy,  unwashed,  unpleasing,  sitting  in  the 
82 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

chaos  of  an  old  battle-field  and  doing  his 
infinitesimal  share.  My  share  f  That's 
what  I  must  remember.  If  you  stop  me 
from  doing  my  share,  you  must  be  forgotten. 
There  are  other  men  here  who  might  re- 
member— men  with  wives  and  sweethearts 
and  children.  None  of  us  must  weaken ; 
none  of  us  must  remember.  We  must  go 
forward  and  always  forward,  dragging  in 
our  guns  along  barraged  roads,  holding  life 
cheap  for  the  cause  in  which  we  fight,  de- 
feating hell  even  though  we  have  to  do  it 
with  our  naked  flesh. 

And  yet — what  use  does  pretence  serve  ? 
—in  each  of  our  hearts  there's  a  little  boy, 
who  whimpers  in  his  bed  and  pushes  back 
the  darkness  with  his  puny  hands.  That 
may  be ;  but,  thank  God,  our  faces  are 
stern  and  don't  show  it. 


83 


via 

I'M  afraid  I've  been  acting  like  the 
traditional  Englishman  ;  you're  the 
greatest  pleasure  I  have  and  I've  been 
taking  you  sadly.  It  isn't  much  of  a  com- 
pliment to  you  and  I  must  stop  it.  Un- 
happiness  is  a  form  of  disloyalty.  If  you 
trace  it  back  far  enough  it's  irreligion,  for 
it  is  based  on  a  doubt  as  to  the  goodness 
of  God's  world.  I  think  a  tragic  chap  must 
always  lose  what  he's  after;  he  jolly  well 
deserves  to  lose  it. 

In  Thomas  Hardy's  novels  when  a  fellow 
comes  a  cropper  he  calls  it  Fate.  "  It  had 
to  be,"  he  says.  Well,  there's  where  I 
disagree ;  I  don't  call  it  Fate— I  call  it 
lack  of  guts.  A  Hardy  hero,  when  he  falls 
in  love  with  a  girl,  immediately  begins  to 
suspect  that  he  isn't  in  love.  He  fools 
84 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

along  with  her,  blowing  cold  and  hot,  until 
another  fellow  turns  up,  whereupon  he  dis- 
covers that  he  wants  her  immensely,  and 
she  discovers  that  she'd  like  to  experiment 
in  another  direction.  He  then  gets  desperate, 
and  instead  of  playing  the  man  emigrates 
and  leaves  a  clear  field  for  his  rival.  The 
girl  marries  Number  Two  on  the  rebound, 
but  instead  of  playing  fair  by  him  senti- 
mentalizes over  the  absent  Number  One. 
Of  course  she  makes  a  mess  of  her  married 
life,  she  walks  forward  to  meet  the  future 
with  her  face  turned  back  towards  the  past. 
She  walks  into  a  lot  of  things  and  gets 
bruised  all  over  through  not  looking  where 
she's  going.  When  she  has  sufficiently 
bruised  herself,  Number  One  comes  back 
from  the  Colonies  and  finds  that  he  doesn't 
want  her — she's  walked  into  two  many 
obstacles  in  his  absence.  Neither  of  them 
blames  the  other.  "  It  had  to  be,"  they  say 
sorrowfully ;  and  there  the  book  ends. 
Hardy  is  a  very  fine  writer,  but  I  wish 
85 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

he'd  be  honest.  Life  becomes  a  mucky 
affair  only  when  people  are  cowards.  Thank 
God,  however  shoddy  we  may  have  been 
in  the  past,  we've  learnt  to  play  the 
game  out  here  in  France.  We're  gamblers. 
Death  plays  against  us  with  loaded  dice. 
The  stake  for  which  we  play  is  life  with 
honour ;  if  we  lose,  we  still  have  our 
honour. 

1  should  be  ashamed  for  you  to  see  some 
of  the  things  which  I've  written  you. 
They're  not  worthy.  They  don't  represent 
me  in  my  highest  moments,  I'm  not  the 
kind  of  person  that  I've  painted  myself. 
I'm  not  really.  I  volunteer  for  a  piece  of 
dirty  work  and  take  my  chances  with  the 
best  of  them.  If  anything  goes  wrong  I 
don't  whine ;  I  take  the  consequences.  In 
your  case  I've  volunteered  for  your  sake 
to  be  silent ;  so  I'll  keep  my  bargain,  and 
take  my  fifty-fifty  chance  just  as  cheerfully 
as  I  would  in  any  row  up  front.  But — let 
me  make  just  one  excuse,  my  dear — you 
86 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

came  upon  me  so  suddenly ;  you  awakened 
such  longings ;  your  very  presence  spoke 
so  loudly  of  a  future  which,  perhaps,  I  may 
not  share ;  you  offered  all  that  I  had  once 
hoped  for  before  I  put  hope  behind  me. 
Don't  you  understand  ?  I'm  greedy  through 
starving ;  I  cried  out  before  I  was  aware. 
Somewhere  in  the  Bible  the  story  is  told 
of  how  the  people  in  a  city  brought 
their  sick  and  laid  them  in  the  streets,  so 
that  even  the  shadow  of  St.  Peter  passing 
by  might  rest  on  some  of  them  and  heal 
them.  Your  presence  to  me  was  like  St. 
Peter's  shadow  to  those  sick  men  ;  it  healed 
me,  but  it  made  me  long  for  more  than 
the  shadow.  The  thought  that  you  would 
walk  through  other  cities  where  I  could  not 
follow,  filled  me  with  emptiness. 

That  is  ended.  Because  I  love  you  I  will 
be  happy ;  not  to  be  happy  would  be 
treachery.  I  have  never  lost  the  great- 
ness of  the  vision  of  what  we  are  doing; 
now  it  should  take  on  a  new  glamour 
87 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

and   knightliness.     This  outwardly  squalid 
tedium  of  filling  sand-bags  to  build  gun-pits, 
being  strafed  and  gassed,  watching  for  long 
hours  in  crumbling  trenches,  takes  on  a  com- 
plexion of  romance.     You  stand  beside  me 
and  watch  me.     All  of  a  sudden  the  war 
has  become  an  Arthurian  legend  in  which 
you  and  I  are   the   leading   characters.     I 
used  to  say,  "  I   am  doing  this  for  all  of 
them " ;  now  I  tell  myself,  "  I'm  doing  it 
for  her."     You  have  become  the  symbol  of 
all  the  goodness   for  which  I  fight.     Did 
you  ever  hear  of  Gaston  de  Foix  ?    He  was 
the  gayest  soldier  of  the  Italian  renaissance 
—a  slip  of  a  lad  with  a  soul  of  laughter, 
eyes   like   strong  wine  and   hair   that  was 
honey-coloured.     Every  defeat  was  changed 
into   victory  by  his   presence.     When  the 
walls  of  a  beleagured  city  were  so  slippery 
with  blood  that  nobody  could  climb  them, 
he  stripped  off  his  hose  and  shoes,  in  a  spirit 
of  deviltry  bound  his  right  arm  behind  him, 
fastened   his  lady's  kerchief  about  his  left 
88 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

and,  grasping  his  sword,  led  the  storming 
party  to  success.  He  took  these  long 
chances  that  he  might  add  glory  to  the 
name  of  his  lady.  I  have  no  kerchief  to 
bind  about  my  arm,  but  your  letter  lies 
near  my  heart  and  goes  with  me  everywhere 
as  a  talisman.  That  you  do  not  know  this 
does  not  matter ;  it  is  in  keeping  with  a  war 
that  is  so  anonymous.  Like  Moses,  we 
climb  a  mountain  and  return  no  more ;  no 
man  knows  the  place  where  we  are  buried. 
We  kill  men  whom  we  never  see  and  are 
killed  by  unseen  men  in  return.  Our  very 
letters  give  no  indication  of  where  we  are. 
Our  address  is  monotonously  the  same  and 
monotonously  characterless — B.E.F., France. 
We  are  allowed  to  write  nothing  of  what 
we  are  doing ;  we  can  only  record  what  is 
happening  in  our  hearts.  It's  splendid  that 
the  world  should  demand  so  complete  a 
giving  of  ourselves.  Gaston  de  Foix  rode 
back  from  his  enterprises  to  cities  garlanded 
to  do  him  honour.  Poets  made  songs  about 

89 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

him,  which  were  sung  in  moonlit  gardens. 
Feasts  were  given  in  his  praise,  at  which 
he  sat  with  the  lady  of  his  heart.  She  wore 
the  token  which  he  had  stained  with  his 
blood ;  she  knew  that  it  was  her  love  that 
had  given  him  the  courage. 

But  we — there  are  too  many  heroes  to- 
day for  any  to  be  noticed.  We  have 
become  nations  of  heroes.  To  be  brave  is 
the  work-a-day  standard ;  not  to  be  brave 
is  the  dastardly  exception.  We  slip  back 
from  the  trenches  into  the  murk  of  London 
unremarked.  We  come  on  leave-trains,  as 
walking-cases  and  on  stretchers.  There  are 
so  many  of  us  that  few  people  notice  if 
some  do  not  return  at  all.  It  was  easy  to 
be  a  Gaston  de  Foix,  watched  by  all  Italy 
while  you  played  the  gallant  with  your 
lady's  token  on  your  arm ;  but  to  go  out 
into  the  night  of  unknowing,  to  achieve  the 
improbable  and  call  it  ordinary,  to  live  un- 
thanked,  die  in  a  crowd  and  yet  be  thankful 
for  your  chance — that  kind  of  fearlessness 
90 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

beats  all  records.  It's  the  kind  of  fearless- 
ness that  is  possessed  by  the  humblest  of 
our  Tommies.  I  love  them,  these  chaps  of 
mine.  I  should  find  heaven  horribly  un- 
homelike  if  there  wasn't  any  khaki. 

The  other  night  I  went  up  to  relieve  a 
man  in  a  Forward  Observation  Post — an 
O.P.,  as  we  call  it.  It  was  a  dirty  kind  of 
hole  in  a  battered  trench,  with  mud  a  foot 
deep  which  stuck  to  your  boots  like  glue. 
Just  as  he  was  leaving,  he  threw  me  a  copy 
of  Scribner's  Magazine,  all  tattered  and 
splotched.  It  was  an  old  copy,  as  most  of 
our  magazines  are.  "  There's  a  poem  in 
there,"  he  said.  "  It's  called,  « To  the  Be- 
loved of  One  Dead.'  It's  true.  Read  it." 

After  I  had  settled  myself  in  the  kennel 
in  the  side  of  the  trench  and  had  scooped 
out  a  hole  in  the  wall  for  a  candle,  I  started 
turning  the  pages.  This  is  what  I  came 
across  : 

"  The  sunlight  shall  not  easily  seem  fair 
To  you  again, 

91 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

Knowing  the  hand  which  once  amid  your  hair 

Did  stray  so  maddeningly 

Now  listlessly 

Is  beaten  into  mire  by  the  summer  rain." 

I  think  I  said,  "  Good  Lord  !  "  My  tele- 
phonist looked  up  and  asked,  "  What  did 
you  say,  sir  ?  "  "  Nothing,"  I  answered. 
The  poem  was  by  a  woman ;  I  forgot  to 
notice  her  name.  It's  too  late  now.  But 
how  did  she,  living  in  America,  manage  to 
express  something  which  she  had  not  seen, 
concerning  which  we  who  have  seen  it 
are  inarticulate  ?  Whenever  I  see  a  hand 
thrust  out  above  the  mud  I  have  just  such 
thoughts  ;  "  The  hand  which  once  amid  your 
hair  did  stray  so  maddeningly."  There  used 
to  be  elbows  and  arms  in  the  Somme  which 
we  knelt  on  to  lift  ourselves  out  of  the 
water,  when  we  were  up  forward  observing. 
I  used  to  thank  the  dead  men  beneath  my 
breath  for  the  charity  which  their  bodies 
still  showed  us. 

There's  a  middle  verse  to  this  poem,  which 
92 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

has   slipped   my  memory.      But  the  third 
verse  ran  somewhat  as  follows : 

"  He  died  amid  the  thunders  of  great  war ; 
His  glory  cries 

Even  now  across  the  lands  ;  perhaps  his  star 
Shall  shine  for  ever — 
But  for  you,  never 
His  wild,  white  body  and  his  thirsting  eyes." 

In  that  last  line  I  see  the  picture  of  my 
own  soul  calling  to  yours.  It's  intolerable. 
"  His  wild,  white  body  and  his  thirsting 
eyes ! "  It  is  better  that  you  should  not 
know.  Besides,  when  the  glory  has  been 
achieved,  the  wild,  white  body  should  be 
forgotten.  Thank  God,  you  have  not  learnt 
to  touch  me  or  feel  the  need  of  me.  A  few 
pleasant  friendly  letters,  some  of  which  even 
now  may  be  destroyed  ;  a  handful  of  happy 
recollections  of  hours  of  companionship 
snatched  in  Paris ;  a  little  kindness  in  your 
heart,  but  no  regret — I  hope  that  for  you 
there  will  be  no  more  than  that.  "  He  was 
a  nice  fellow,"  you'll  say ;  that  will  be  all. 

93 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

But  to  be  haunted  by  those  other  thoughts  ! 
That  would  be  damnable.  Besides,  it  isn't 
the  body  that  counts ;  it's  this  something 
which,  while  it  cries  out  for  you,  refuses  to 
let  me  turn  back,  but  drives  me  on  and 
on — to  what  ? 


94 


IX 

IT  lias  come  —your  third  letter.  I  had  to 
wait  longer  for  it  than  you  intended, 
for  we  have  been  on  the  road  for  more 
than  a  week  marching,  pulling  in  for  a  new 
attack.  It  is  to  be  the  greatest,  so  they 
say,  of  the  entire  war  ;  I  never  saw  so  many 
troops  in  one  area  or  such  a  heavy  con- 
centration of  guns.  All  the  way,  for  the 
past  eight  days,  I  have  seen  nothing  but 
ammunition-lorries,  battalions,  batteries, 
caterpillars,  all  moving  in  the  one  direction. 
It  speaks  volumes  for  the  Army  organiza- 
tion that,  in  so  vast  a  movement  of  such 
masses,  they  know  absolutely  at  any  moment 
at  what  point  on  the  road  any  unit  can  be 
found. 

We  started  with  our  line  of  march   all 
routed — the  exact  number  of  miles  to  be 
95 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

covered  each  day,  the  villages  at  which  we 
were  to  halt,  the  watering-places,  the  points 
for  drawing  forage — everything  ordered  and 
thought  out.  We  moved  like  clockwork : 
there  were  no  hitches,  no  breakdowns. 

Some  of  our  poor  old  horses  died ;  they 
had  been  standing  in  the  mud  all  the  winter. 
It  was  pitiful  to  see  them  limping  along, 
putting  their  last  ounce  of  strength  into 
dragging  the  guns.  Their  drivers,  who  had 
grown  fond  of  them,  were  still  more  pitiful 
when  they  had  to  part  with  them.  It's 
extraordinary  how  eager  men  are  to  give 
their  love ;  they  give  it  to  their  officers, 
to  one  another,  to  dumb  animals.  You 
wouldn't  think  that  men  whose  business 
it  is  to  kill  could  love  so  much. 

It  has  been  splendid  getting  into  clean 
country  again.  The  signs  of  spring  were 
everywhere,  We  saw  women  ploughing 
and  little  children  doing  men's  work.  Only 
the  very  old  and  very  young  are  left ;  one 
realized  how  much  France  has  suffered. 
96 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

It  was  tremendous  fun  after  the  same  old 
trenches  to  be  going  to  a  new  place.  The 
new  trenches  are  just  as  bad  as  the  ones 
that  we  have  left — only  they're  different  and 
that  makes  for  excitement.  When  you've 
been  on  a  front  for  a  certain  time,  you  get 
to  know  every  inch  of  it.  It  bores  you 
to  death ;  you  get  horribly  fed  up.  You 
don't  a  bit  mind  going  to  something  worse 
if  only  you  can  get  a  sense  of  novelty. 

We  stopped  in  all  kinds  of  villages  by  the 
way  and  slept  in  anything — from  chateaux 
to  stables.  We  were  so  weary  that  where 
we  slept  didn't  matter  much,  so  long  as  we 
got  a  shakedown  and  something  to  eat  for 
breakfast.  Each  morning  we  rose  at  four 
and  usually  didn't  pull  in  to  our  horse-lines 
till  the  light  was  failing.  Then  the  guns 
had  to  be  parked,  the  parades  carried  out, 
the  pickets  posted,  the  guards  mounted,  and 
the  billets  of  the  men  inspected ;  so  it  was 
usually  ten  before  one  rolled  into  his  sleep- 
ing-sack. By  eight  o'clock  next  morning 
97  H 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  camp  was  empty — tidy  as  if  we  had 
never  been  there ;  by  nightfall  other  camp- 
fires  would  be  burning,  surrounded  by 
another  crowd  of  transients.  Hymn-writers 
may  well  compare  the  instability  of  life 
with  the  passage  of  an  army  marching 
forward. 

Where  we  are  now,  we  have  not  had 
time  to  build  any  dug-outs  ;  all  our  work 
is  being  put  into  the  gun-pits.  When  they 
are  done,  the  men's  quarters  come  next,  and 
last  of  all  the  officers'.  I  have  some  old 
ground-sheets  spread  across  a  trench  in  the 
bottom  of  which  I  have  unrolled  my  sleep- 
ing-sack. It's  oddly  like  a  grave,  especially 
in  the  dark  when  your  hands  touch  the  cold 
damp  walls.  So  long  as  it  doesn't  rain  I'm 
pretty  comfy  and  haven't  much  to  complain 
about.  One  gets  used  to  anything.  It's 
queer  to  reflect  that  there's  scarcely  a 
beggar  in  any  city  who  isn't  better  housed. 
One  can  get  accustomed  to  anything  when 
the  standards  of  privation  are  arbitrary. 
98 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

This  new  offensive  fills  us  with  excite- 
ment. We  know  that  it's  going  to  be  costly. 
The  shelling  has  already  increased,  proving 
that  the  Hun  has  his  own  ideas  of  what  is 
planned.  It  makes  one  wonder  how  many 
of  the  masses  which  have  marched  in  for 
the  attack  will  march  out.  Will  they  die 
haphazard,  blindly,  at  random — or  does 
some  one  know  already  the  names  of  those 
who  will  lie  silent  before  the  month  is  out  ? 
One  would  like  to  ask  God  questions. 

There's  an  extraordinary  suspense  and 
secrecy  in  the  air — an  under-current  of 
strained  intensity.  The  men  feel  it ;  you 
see  that  by  the  way  they  work.  They  spare 
no  labour  in  making  their  gun-pits  as  shell- 
proof  as  possible.  You  hear  them  telling 
one  another,  "  It's  going  to  be  a  hell  of  a 
strafe  when  it  starts."  The  rumour  is  that 
behind  us  the  cavalry  are  mustering,  so  it 
looks  like  Armageddon  with  a  vengeance. 

It  was  here  that  your  letter  found  me, 
just  after   I   had  groped  my  way  into  my 

99 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

sack.  I  heard  some  one  tramping  about 
on  the  edge  of  the  trench  above  me :  then 
my  batman  asking,  "  Are  you  awake,  sir  ? 
There's  a  letter  for  you."  I  told  him  to 
fling  it  down.  When  I  had  played  my 
flashlight  on  it  and  had  seen  your  hand- 
writing, you  may  imagine  me  hunting 
feverishly  for  a  match.  When  I  found  the 
box  it  was  damp — so  there  was  I  with  no 
way  to  light  my  candle,  keeping  you  waiting 
as  though  I  had  no  manners.  It  was  just 
like  that,  as  though  you  had  rung  the  bell 
and  I  was  leaving  you  standing  on  the  door- 
step. It  seemed  horribly  discourteous  after 
your  long  and  dangerous  journey,  all  the 

way  from  J to  where  I  am. 

Jack  Holt  sleeps  in  the  same  trench, 
with  his  feet  against  my  head.  I  roused 
him  with  my  swearing.  Yes,  I  am  not  an 
angel ;  there  are  occasions  when  my  vocabu- 
lary grows  exceedingly  stormy.  Jack  Holt 
is  a  funny  old  thing  in  some  respects  :  he 
sleeps  with  his  head  inside  a  kind  of  bag. 
100 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  suppose  his  wife  made  him  promise  to 
wear  it — she  must  have  knitted  it  for  him. 
That's  the  only  way  I  can  account  for  the 
stoicism  with  which  he  puts  up  with  our 
chaff  arid  persists  in  wearing  it.  When  he 
speaks  with  it  on,  his  voice  sounds  muffled 
as  though  he  had  a  hot  potato  in  his  mouth. 
As  I  continued  to  swear,  he  tried  to  say 
something.  At  last  I  listened.  "  Use  your 
flash-lamp,  old  boy.  I  often  use  a  flash- 
lamp  to  read  my  wife's  letters."  My  flash- 
lamp  was  weak ;  the  battery  was  running 
out.  If  it  isn't  improper,  I  ask  you  to 
picture  me  as  I  sat  up  in  my  narrow  grave, 
trying  to  spell  out  your  racing  characters 
by  an  illumination  of  about  two  glow-worm 
power.  Very  often  I  mistook  your  words  ; 
once  I  thought  I  had  found  a  sudden 
tenderness  which,  on  a  second  puzzling 
over,  vanished.  It  made  my  heart  stand 
still  for  a  moment.  I  realized  then  what 
a  gaiety  would  fill  my  world  if  I  had  the 
assurance  that  you  loved  me. 
101 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

You  do  not,  for  you  write  to  me— 
how  often  ?  once  a  month,  perhaps.  Your 
replies  are  dragged  from  you  by  my  many 
effusions.  Unless  you  forbade  my  corre- 
spondence, you  have  no  option  but  to  reply. 
I  have  given  you  no  grounds  for  doing  that 
as  yet ;  in  all  that  I  have  written  I  have 
been  prudent — only  the  quantity  gives  you 
reason  to  suspect.  The  quantity  constitutes 
a  kind  of  blackmail ;  for  ten  of  my  pages 
you  can  scarcely  send  less  than  one  in 
return.  But  you  must  know  that  I  care 
for  you.  However  formal  and  merely 
friendly  I  try  to  make  my  letters,  there 
must  have  been  stray  shades  of  meaning  in 
which  I  have  betrayed  myself.  And  then 
there  are  the  presents  which  you  have 
received  from  Paris  with  no  donor's  name 
attached — orders  which  I  have  sent  back 
from  the  Front.  They  come  to  you  anony- 
mously, chocolates,  books,  cigarettes.  Bad 
taste  on  my  part  to  do  it !  I  own  that— 
but  I  must  feel  that  I  am  with  you, 
102 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

somehow.  The  books  might  easily  give  me 
away,  for  many  of  them  were  mentioned 
while  we  were  together.  The  ones  I  have 
sent  are  those  that  you  said  you  had  not 
read. 

You  refer  to  one  of  them  casually 
in  your  letter — "  The  Journal  of  Marie 
Baskirtseff."  You  say  that  you've  come 

across  a  copy  at  J ,  and  remembering 

our  conversation  have  read  it.  Perhaps 
you're  giving  me  my  chance  to  confess. 

Yes,  and  I  remember  that  conversation, 
I  had  called  for  you  on  a  winter's  evening. 
I  had  been  delayed  at  the  last  minute,  and 
then  I  couldn't  find  a  taxi.  As  I  crossed 
the  Place  de  1'Etoile  I  was  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  late.  How  immaterial  that  would 
have  seemed  had  I  been  going  to  meet  any 
other  person  !  But  there  were  to  be  so  few 
quarters  of  an  hour  that  we  could  share. 
When  I  coveted  all  your  life,  to  throw 
fifteen  minutes  away  was  like  squandering 
a  fortune.  I  found  you  waiting  for  me ; 
103 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

you  were  alone,  as  you  always  were.  I 
never  saw  you  with  another  man.  From 
the  first  time  we  met,  you  gave  me  a 
strange  consciousness  that,  so  long  as  we 
could  be  together,  you  were  reserving  your- 
self for  me  only.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
because  I  was  on  leave.  At  any  rate  it 
was  kind  of  you  and  made  me  happy. 

I  can  see  you  now,  snuggled  up  in  your 
furs,  your  tranquil  hands  folded  above  your 
muff,  and  your  gloves  trailing.  Your  eyes 
—how  grey  they  were !  Grey  as  stars 
when  a  mist  drives  across  them.  They 
were  watching  for  me;  the  moment 
I  entered  they  met  mine  with  a  quiet 
laughter. 

I  have  never  tried  to  describe  your  face— 
I  scarcely  know  how.  It  is  a  vivid  face, 
small  in  the  forehead  and  sloping  from  the 
temples  to  a  chin  that  is  exquisitely 
pointed.  It  makes  me  think  of  those  long- 
dead  women  who,  loving  life  delicately, 
were  made  to  pose  for  a  renunciation  that 
104 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

was  not  theirs  in  the  sacred  masterpieces 
of  Renaissance  painters.  Always  about 
you  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  mystery,  of 
patience,  of  beauty  half-awakenedo  I  had 
the  continual  feeling  while  I  was  with  you 
that  at  any  moment  you  might  vanish.  I 
have  had  the  same  sensation  of  unreality  in 
a  June  garden,  when  rosebuds  were  un- 
folding, and  the  dew  was  still  glistening  on 
their  petals  :  a  poignant  certainty  that  they 
could  not  last — their  spirituality  was  too 
ecstatic.  Spirituality  is  a  repellent  word  ; 
but  there  is  a  spirituality  of  the  body.  It 
was  the  spirituality  of  the  earthly  part  of 
you  that  made  me  walk  beside  you  with 
bated  breath. 

Your  eyes  are  wide,  with  an  Oriental 
sadness,  which  is  contradicted  by  the  gaiety 
of  your  mouth.  But  it  is  the  brows  above 
your  eyes  that  sum  up  your  character. 
They  are  mere  pencilled  bows,  like  the 
arched  wings  of  a  bird.  That  night  they 
were  coming  towards  me;  now  they  seem 
105 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

poised,  uncertain,  as  though  a  strong  wind 
were  forcing  them  back.  What  would  I 
not  give  for  one  hour  with  you  ?  Just  one 
more  hour. 

You  rose  and  held  out  your  hand.  We 
slipped  into  the  night.  Where  should  we 
go  ?  I  think  neither  of  us  cared.  Had  you 
said,  "  To  the  end  of  the  world  and  for 
ever,"  I  should  have  been  made  madly 
happy.  We  tried  the  Crillon,  but  it  looked 
dull,  like  a  swimming  pool  out  of  which  the 
water  had  been  emptied.  Then  we  deter- 
mined to  experiment.  Do  you  recall  where 
our  experiment  landed  us — in  the  Cafd  de 
Paris,  a  place  where  we  never  ought  to 
have  been  together?  We  didn't  realize 
that  at  first — not  until  the  sparrows  of  the 
night  commenced  to  drift  in  in  pairs. 
When  they  had  perched  on  the  gold-plush 
cushions,  and  had  begun  to  preen  them- 
selves before  the  many  mirrors,  we  became 
aware. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  I  said.  "  I'm  afraid 
100 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  oughtn't "  You  smiled  your  amuse- 
ment. "  Life's  interesting.  So  long  as 
you're  not  worried,  I'm—  And  you 

shrugged  your  shoulders. 

I  loved  you  for  your  frank  acceptance  of 
the  situation,  but  most  of  all  for  your  way 
of  letting  me  off  so  lightly.  It  was  so 
honest — so  fearless.  So  we  sat  on,  ignoring 
our  surroundings,  and  it  was  then  that  we 
drifted  into  our  conversation  about  Marie 
Baskirtseff*.  You  hadn't  read  her.  Did 
you  know  Bastien-Lepage's  Joan  of  Arc  in 
the  Metropolitan  Gallery  ?  Well,  he  was 
the  man  with  whom  she  had  been  in  love — 
probably  the  only  one.  I  told  you  of  her 
life,  like  gold  thread  woven  on  black  satin — 
a  streak  of  glory  in  a  cloud  of  darkness. 
How  she  had  had  two  overpowering  yearn- 
ings— to  be  famous  and  to  be  madly  loved. 
How  she  wrote  down  the  cruel  truths  about 
herself  from  her  earliest  childhood — her  in- 
fatuations, experiments,  disillusionments, 
despairs.  How  she  was  trained  for  the 
107 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

opera  and  her  voice  failed  her.  How  she 
painted  the  one  great  picture  we  had  seen 
in  the  Luxembourg,  and  then  learnt  that 
she  was  dying  of  consumption.  When  it 
was  too  late,  love,  which  she  had  increas- 
ingly coveted,  came  to  her.  She  met 
Bastien-Lepage,  who  was  also  dying  and, 
when  he  was  too  weak  to  come  to  her,  had 
had  herself  carried  to  his  studio.  Fame 
eluded  her  just  as  love  had  done ;  her 
journal  was  not  published  till  after  she  was 
dead. 

"  I  wonder  if  love  always  comes  too 
late,"  you  questioned.  I  looked  away  from 
you.  The  temptation  was  too  strong  to 
tell  you.  You  must  have  known  then. 
"  We  had  better  be  going,"  that  was  all  I 
said ;  but  as  I  helped  you  on  with  your 
furs  I  dared  not  watch  you.  Before  my 
inner  vision  the  passion  of  life  was  marching 
in  procession.  I  saw  what  might  have  been 
— what  might  be  yet.  I  had  never  known 
love  or  passion  till  then.  It  seemed  so 
108 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

easy,  so  right   to  seize  it  while  life  lasted. 

It  need  not  have  been  too  late  if But 

I  could  not  do  it — could  not  speak  the 
words  which  would  destroy  your  rest.  If 
you  had  ever  noticed  me,  you  would  soon 
forget.  What  right  had  a  man  who  was 
going  into  battle  to  leave  a  woman  who 
might  have  to  weep  for  him?  So  I  left 
your  question  still  a  question.  Perhaps  for 
us,  as  for  Marie  BaskirtsefF,  love  had  arrived 
too  late.  We  passed  out  from  the  warmth 
and  glare,  and  parted  in  the  night  of  un- 
knowing. 

All  this  I  remembered  as  I  lay  in  my 
narrow  trench  with  your  letter  tucked 
beneath  my  pillow.  Every  now  and  then 
I  would  get  my  flashlight  out  to  re-read  a 
passage.  I  kept  hoping  I  might  discover 
some  hidden  meaning — some  underlying 
tenderness  that  your  words  had  suppressed. 
The  guns  opened  up ;  the  night  firing  had 
commenced,  shaking  the  walls  of  my  narrow 
dwelling.  I  pictured  the  Hun  carrying- 
109 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

party  above  which  our  shrapnel  had  begun 
to  burst.  They  would  throw  away  their 
burdens  and  scatter.  We  were  sweeping 
and  searching ;  we  must  surely  kill  some. 
Why  should  we  kill  them  ?  We  had  never 
even  seen  these  men.  Life  was  ruthless. 
It  withheld  love  till  it  was  too  late.  It 
put  weapons  of  slaughter  into  our  hands, 
when  all  we  desired  was  to  live  ourselves. 
It  gave  us  glimpses,  only  glimpses,  of  the 
things  we  had  desired,  and  then  passed  us 
on  into  another  world. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  had  lain  reflect- 
ing or  whether  I  had  drowsed ;  the  next 
thing  I  knew  was  that  the  walls  had  fallen 
in  on  me  and  I  was  struggling  to  push  back 
the  load  from  my  chest.  I  couldn't  have 
been  buried  very  deeply,  for  I  soon  smelt 
the  air ;  it  was  foul  with  bursting  shells. 
I  made  my  way  to  where  Jack  Holt  had 
been  lying  and  started  tearing  back  the 
earth.  In  the  darkness  one  felt  horribly 
impotent  to  help.  Several  gunners  came 
110 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

running  with  spades  from  a  gun-pit.  They 
were  the  detachment  that  had  been  doing 
the  night-firing,  and  had  seen  the  shell  that 
had  buried  us.  I  took  a  spade  and  com- 
menced digging  desperately.  We  soon 
uncovered  his  face — or,  rather,  that  extra- 
ordinary bag  that  his  wife  had  made  for 
him.  When  he  felt  the  air,  he  soon  re- 
covered and  only  complained  of  bruises. 

Our  flash  must  have  been  seen  by  the 
enemy  or  else  he  had  guessed  who  was 
doing  the  damage.  He  was  bringing  a  con- 
centrated fire  to  bear  upon  our  battery, 
doing  his  best  to  knock  us  out.  There  was 
no  sense  in  staying  near  the  position  so 
long  as  that  lasted,  so  we  ran  from  gun-pit 
to  gun-pit,  telling  the  men  to  clear  to  the 
flanks.  There  were  three  of  them  wounded, 
but  none  of  them  seriously;  so  we  didn't 
come  off  so  badly.  The  rest  of  the  night 
was  fairly  exciting,  spent  in  putting  out 
flaming  ammunition. 

When  morning  came,  I  and  my  batman 
111 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

set  to  work  exhuming  my  sleeping-sack. 
We  recovered  both  it  and  your  letter.  I 
am  now  residing  in  another  trench.  This 
acquiring  of  new  apartments  is  very  simple 
in  a  land  where  one  pays  no  rent. 

But  your  letter !  By  the  light  of  day 
I  have  read  and  re-read  it.  Somehow  at 
each  new  perusal  it  seems  more  friendly. 
I  wonder  why  that  is  ?  Probably  because 
when  first  it  arrived  I  expected  too  much ; 
I  had  written  in  my  mind  so  often  the  kind 
of  letter  I  would  like  to  receive  from  you. 
I  was  looking  for  that  letter  in  your  pages 
rather  than  reading  the  one  you  had  sent. 
Because  I  didn't  find  it,  T  sank  into  the 
abyss  of  despair.  Then,  little  by  little,  I 
began  to  listen  to  you,  and  finding  that  you 
meant  to  be  kind  and  friendly  I  cheered  up. 

Little  Gaston  still  holds  your  affections 
evidently.  And  he  isn't  so  old-looking  now, 
you  tell  me,  and  his  eyes  are  becoming 
increasingly  heavenly.  But  it's  his  little 
hands  that  go  to  your  heart — they're  so 
112 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

lonely.  You  speak  of  the  way  they  clutch 
you  and  hold  on  so  tightly,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  facing  life  by  himself.  Poor  little 
chap !  He  hasn't  got  much  chance — a 
Boche  baby  with  his  French  mother  dead. 
War  seems  glorious  when  you  view  it  by 
armies,  but  its  details  are  tragic.  There 
are  so  many  people  to  whom  it  does  not 
give  a  chance.  I'm  here  to  make  it  still 
more  tragic ;  your  business  is  to  try  to 
mend  the  things  that  I  have  broken.  I 
like  to  think  of  our  friendship  as  that — a 
partnership  between  duty  and  mercy. 

Ah,  and  I  forgot — you  don't  approve  of 
Marie  Baskirtseff ;  you  think  that  she  was 
cold  and  selfish,  and  brought  most  of  her 
troubles  on  herself.  I  understand — the 
greyness  of  your  eyes  explains  a  lot.  The 
French  have  a  saying  which  divides  the 
world  into  two  classes — those  who  love  and 
those  who  allow  themselves  to  be  loved. 
Marie  Baskirtseff  belonged  to  the  latter, 
while  you,  with  your  mothering  grey  eyes, 
113  I 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

want  to  gather  all  the  loneliness  of  the 
world  into  your  breast.  You  would  not 
like  her — and  1  am  glad.  There  are  times 
when  I  think  of  you  profanely,  as  if  you 
were  the  mother  of  God  Himself. 


114 


X 


THY  don't  you  write  to  me  ?  I 
almost  wish  that  we  had  never 
met.  Life  is  unbearable  with- 
out you.  I  don't  want  you  to  love  me  ;  all 
I  ask  is  a  sign  that  you  remember.  Surely 
it  is  impossible  that  you  should  live  so  in 
the  thoughts  of  one  whom  you  yourself 
forget.  When  my  letters  come  do  you 
smile — smile  in  a  pitying  way  that  would 
hurt  me  if  I  saw  it  ?  If  you  don't  care  for 
me,  why  don't  you  tell  me  ?  But  perhaps 
you  are  telling  me— by  your  silence.  Or 
perhaps  you  are  only  blind.  Do  you  say, 
"  What  a  nuisance  !  There's  another  letter 
from  that  troublesome  man.  Oh  well,  he's 
in  the  trenches.  Some  day  when  I'm  not 
so  tired  I'll  be  kind."  And  yet  I — I  am 
115 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

only  happy  when  writing  my  soul  to  you 
on  paper. 

You  can't  guess  with  what  suspense  I 
watch  for  you  each  night  and  how  I 
treasure  your  handwriting  when  I  get  it. 
All  the  while  I'm  ashamed  that  I  should 
feel  this  way — that  I  should  allow  you  to 
revive  this  clinging  to  life.  From  the  first 
I  have  never  felt  that  I  should  come  back. 
Does  it  seem  too  much  to  ask  that  one  girl 
should  only  pretend  to  be  a  little  fond  of 
me  ?  It  wouldn't  cost  you  much — half  an 
hour  a  week  of  yourself  in  writing,  and  I 
should  be  happy.  You  wouldn't  need  to 
commit  yourself  in  any  way ;  you  would 
only  have  to  say  you  were  my  friend. 

I'm  afraid  of  growing  bitter  up  here 
in  the  loneliness — rebellious  that,  with  all 
that  life  has  withheld,  it  should  have  for- 
bidden you  to  me  as  well.  My  mind  is 
filled  with  pictures  of  what  we  might  have 
done  if 

But  I  seem  to  be  blaming  you — to  be 
116 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

accusing  you  of  cruelty.  I'm  not.  I  under- 
stand. For  the  first  time  you  have  lost 
yourself  in  service  ;  you're  so  absorbed  in 
your  work,  so  compassionate,  so  weary,  so 
eager  to  give  more  than  you  have,  that 
there's  no  room  for  other  emotions.  Un- 
consciously you  ignore  me.  If  you  think 
of  me  at  all,  you  attribute  to  me  your  own 
fine  altruism.  To  speak  of  love  at  such  a 
time  would  be  like  turning  from  Christ  to 
the  embraces  of  a  man — from  the  divine  to 
the  merely  earthly. 

"  Oh  loose  me  !     Seest  thou  not  my  bridegroom's 

face 

That  draws  me  to  Him  ?    For  His  feet  my  kiss, 
My  hair,  my  tears  He  craves  to-day — and  oh, 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and  place 
Shall  see  me  clasp  those  blood-stained  feet  of 

His  ! 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me :  let  me  go." 

It  is  almost  as  though  you  spoke.     They 

are  words  that  Rossetti  put  into  the  mouth 

of  a  woman  who   turned   her   head  when 

pleasure   beckoned,  and   caught  a  glimpse 

117 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

of  Christ  for  the  first  time.  She  was 
passing  out  of  a  hot  Eastern  street  to  a 
banquet,  when  she  was  halted  by  the  divine 
face.  Her  lover  could  not  understand. 
He  did  not  want  to  understand.  He 
questioned  her  : 

"  Why  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine  hair  ? 
Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose — wreath,  lips  and  cheek. 
Nay  not  this  house — that  banquet  house  we 

seek. 

See  how  they  kiss  and  enter.    Come  thou  there. 
This  delicate  day  of  love  we  two  will  share, 
Till   at  our  ear  love's  whispering  night   shall 

speak." 

But  to  this  and  all  his  arguments, 
following  Christ  with  her  gaze,  she 
murmurs, 

"  He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me  :  let  me  go." 

In  what  you  are  doing  I  don't  think  you 
are  conscious  of  any  religion ;  if  you  were, 
it  would  spoil  it.  Nevertheless,  what  you 
are  doing  is  religious.  You  are  experiencing 
the  "  expulsive  power  of  a  new  emotion  " — 
the  emotion  of  a  dedicated  sympathy  ;  it 
118 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

pushes  all  personal  affection  beyond  your 
horizon.  You  think — if  you  think  at  all — 
that  I  also  am  like  that ;  that  I,  too,  have 
made  my  heart  a  monastery.  I  had.  But 
now,  because  of  you,  I  crave  once  more — 
only  once  more  "  the  touch  of  live  hands." 
If  I  could  tell  you—  -  !  I  wonder.  Would 
you  understand  ? 


119 


XI 

I  AM  becoming  an  old  man.     It's  extra- 
ordinary  how   quickly  war   ages   one. 
There  are  boys  of  twenty  in  my  battery 
who  look  forty :  their  faces  are  hollow  and 
their    cheeks    lined.     In    my   mind    I    am 
getting  like  that.     This  trick  of  talking  to 
myself  on  paper   is  the  habit  of  a  person 
very  aged.     Well,  what  does  it  matter,  so 
long  as  it  makes  life  happier  ? 

There  are  times  when  I  almost  persuade 
myself  that  I  have  sent  you  these  letters. 
The  world  of  the  heart  is  an  unreal  place 
at  best,  full  of  false  hopes,  false  fears  and 
unreasonable  charities.  I  remember  how, 
when  I  was  a  boy  at  school,  I  used 
to  long  for  the  night  to  come.  By  day 
I  was  bullied  and  controlled  and  miserable, 
but  at  night,  when  the  dormitory  was  in 
120 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

darkness,  I  used  to  own  my  soul  and  wander 
where  I  chose.  I  created  the  most  extra- 
ordinary world  for  myself,  making  I  up  with 
imagination  for  the  disillusionment  of  reality. 
By  day  I  was  a  wretched  little  white-faced 
creature,  the  youngest  boy  in  the  school, 
who  crept  through  the  corridors  in  perpetual 
fear  of  chastisement.  But  at  night  I  was 
brave — quite  a  King  Arthur  kind  of  person, 
who  rode  to  the  rescue  of  great  ladies  and 
challenged  all  the  world.  In  my  little 
white  bed,  one  of  a  row  of  twenty,  I  would 
strive  to  keep  myself  awake,  lest  the  hours 
which  were  my  own  should  slip  from  me, 
and  I  should  open  my  eyes  to  find  that  I 
was  again  in  the  bondage  of  daylight. 
Here  in  the  trenches  I  have  fallen  back  on 
that  old  trick  of  childhood.  I  have  to  meet 
you  somehow. 

No,  my  dearest,  I  am  not  a  coward ;  I 

am  quite  ready  to  die.     I  should  even  feel 

oddly  ashamed  if  I  survived  when  so  many 

a  better  man  is  dead.     Don't  think  I'm  a 

121 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

coward.  But  since  we  have  met  I  have 
become  most  poignantly  eager  to  live  more 
fully.  It  seems  as  though  I  never  knew 
what  to  do  with  life  till  now — now  that  it 
is  too  late.  Nothing  that  I  could  have 
done  with  fifty  years  of  living  would  have 
been  as  splendid  as  one  week  of  what  I 
am  at  present  doing,  but  it  does  not  include 
you.  In  a  vain  attempt  to  make  you  a 
part  of  my  world  I  lie  awake  imagining 
half  the  night.  What  a  foolish  heart  I 
have !  If  you  have  ever  loved,  you  will 
understand. 

At  present  much  of  our  time  is  spent  in 
building  gun-pits  in  advanced  positions,  too 
near  for  safety  to  the  front-line.  I  am  in 
charge  of  the  construction  of  one  of  these 
just  now.  The  Huns  seem  to  have  become 
aware  of  us.  Doubtless,  one  of  their  aero 
planes  has  observed  us.  We  never  know 
at  what  moment  the  shelling  will  commence. 
They  sweep  and  search,  groping  for  us  with 
shrapnel.  There's  scarcely  a  day  that  I 
122 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

don't  lose  some  of  my  men.  This  is  the 
second  advanced  position  that  I  have  built, 
and  there's  a  third,  still  further  forward, 
to  be  built  yet.  It  will  have  to  be  done 
at  night. 

The  other  day  a  splinter  of  shell  caught 
me  on  the  head.  It  made  a  fairly  deep 
scalp-wound,  but  didn't  seem  serious.  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  have  been  more  careful. 
The  brigade  M.O.  wanted  to  send  me  out, 
but  there's  too  much  to  be  done  and  I 
don't  want  to  miss  the  big  offensive.  I'm 
staying  on  at  my  job,  but  the  wound  has 
become  poisoned.  My  top-knot  is  wrapped 
in  bandages  and  I  look  tragic.  The  truth 
is,  we're  short  of  officers  with  all  we  have 
to  do,  and  to  go  out  just  now  would  leave 
other  people  overworked. 

I've  mentioned  Jack  Holt  several  times. 
I  found  out  that  he  was  worrying  because 
his  wife  was  expecting  a  little  Jack.  He 
was  up  forward  the  other  day  at  the  O.P. 
when  a  telegram  arrived  at  the  battery, 
123 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

telling  him  to  return  to  England  at  once — 
her  condition  had  become  critical.  We 
were  wondering  how  we  could  work  his 
leave  when  Stephen  came  into  the  dug-out. 
1  think  I've  mentioned  Stephen  to  you ; 
he's  the  chap  who  never  gets  any  letters 
and  never  seems  to  expect  them.  He's  a 
fine  big  fellow — the  kind  people  love  at 
once ;  but  oddly  he  seems  to  have  left 
nobody  behind,  who  cares.  He  was  smiling 
as  he  entered.  "  My  leave's  coming  through 
for  Blighty,"  he  said.  "  They've  just  told 
me  at  Headquarters."  Then  we  told  him 
about  Jack.  Without  hesitating  for  a 
moment  he  said,  "  Then  Jack  must  have 
my  leave- warrant.  There's  really  no  reason 
why  I  should  want  to  go  to  England."  He 
insisted,  but  he  made  the  proviso  that  Jack 
should  not  be  told  because,  if  he  knew,  he 
would  certainly  refuse  to  take  it.  Stephen 
volunteered  to  take  his  shift  at  the  O.P. 
and  to  go  forward  at  once  to  relieve  him. 
If  you  could  picture  where  we  are  and  what 
124 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  contrast  between  this  and  Blighty  means 
to  us,  you  would  know  what  that  piece  of 
unselfishness  meant.     Two  hours  later  Jack 
reported  back.     We'd  hurried  up  the  leave- 
warrant  and   he  started   back  for  life,  hot 
water  and  clean-sheeted  beds.     He  couldn't 
imagine  why  he  was  being  sent  to  Blighty 
out  of  his  turn ;  for  fear  he  should  worry, 
we  didn't  tell  him.     We're  waiting  tiptoe 
now  to  hear  whether  everything  has  gone 
all  right.     We're  like  a  lot  of  old  women, 
we  young  men  of  the  officers'  mess.     We've 
already  selected  alternative  names  for  the 
baby  according  to  its   sex.     We  consider 
that  it's  in  some  way  ours — a  battery  baby. 
In  the  event  of  it's  being  a  boy,  we've  agreed 
that  it  must  be  called  Stephen — there's  no 
feminine  equivalent  for  Stephen,  unless  it's 
Stephenetta.     It  would  be  rather  cruel  to 
call  a  baby-girl  that. 

You  may  think  it   odd   that   we  should 
take  such  an  interest  in  a  brother  officer's 
exceedingly  domestic  affairs.     It  isn't  really 
125 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

odd — it's  envy.  We  all  wish  that  we  also 
had  a  child.  By  calling  it  a  battery  baby, 
we  seem  to  acquire  a  share  in  its  paternity. 
Things  become  very  honest  and  real  out 
here.  We  reckon  up  our  lost  chances.  We 
know  why  we  were  born :  from  Nature's 
point  of  view  simply  and  solely  to  reproduce 
some  one  like,  but  a  little  better  than  our- 
selves. There's  an  incompleteness  about 
"  going  West "  when  you  leave  no  one 
behind  you.  But  that  doesn't  bear  talking 
about. 

As  I  write,  some  one  has  set  the  gramo- 
phone going.  His  selection  is  appropriate, 
but  I  wish  he'd  quicken  the  time.  A  thin 
music-hall  voice  has  commenced  to  whine, 
"  All  that  I  want  is  somebody  to  love  me, 
and  to  love  me  well — very  well." 

Vulgar  songs  can  quite  often  express  our 
deepest  emotions  very  truly.  Bill  Lane 
has  suddenly  ceased  'strafing;  an  absurdly 
seraphic  look  has  descended  upon  him. 
He's  thinking  of  the  girl  he  is  planning  to 
126 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

marry.  Our  major  is  leaning  forward  with 
his  head  between  his  hands,  scowling  as  he 
always  does  when  he  thinks  of  his  girl. 
And  I — I'm  remembering  Paris  and  the 
greyness  of  your  eyes  and  the  smallness  of 
your  hands,  and—  Yes,  thank  God, 
I'm  thinking  of  you  doing  your  duty.  The 

picture  of  you  at  J is  always  with  me, 

of  the  wards,  the  mercy  and  the  little 
children,  I'm  glad  that  you  can  forget  me, 
and  the  danger,  and  your  own  comfort  in 
order  that  you  may  make  the  world  a  little 
better.  I  think  you'd  like  Stephen ;  he's 
like  that  too. 


127 


XII 

A  CURIO  US  thing  has  happened  ;  so 
curious  that  I  should  not  have 
imagined  it  possible  in  my  wildest 
dreams.  Yesterday  I  received  your  photo- 
graph. You  do  not  believe  me?  But  I 
did.  I  can  prove  it  to  you.  It  is  a  picture 
taken  in  a  French  courtyard.  Climbing 
from  the  right-hand  corner  to  the  left  is 
a  staircase.  Standing  on  the  stairs  there 
are  one,  two,  three — let  me  count — six 
American  Red  Cross  girls.  At  the  bottom 
there  is  a  male  chef  kind  of  person,  who 
does  not  command  my  interest.  He  has  a 
silky,  bird's-nest  sort  of  beard,  as  all  chefs 
ought  to  have.  To  his  right,  in  the  court- 
yard itself,  there  is  a  French  officer ;  and 
to  his  right  a  charming  little  matron  ;  then 
two  more  officers  and  a  doorway,  in  which 
128 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

are  standing  two  American  nurses,  one  of 
whom  is  yourself.  You  are  all  in  white — 
even  your  shoes  are  white — and  a  white  veil 
blows  back  across  your  shoulders.  Now  are 
you  persuaded  that  the  photograph  is  really 
one  of  you  ? 

How  did  I  receive  it  ?  Who  sent  it  ?  1 
am  no  wiser  than  you.  All  1  know  is  that 
you  didn't.  On  the  back  there  is  writing, 
simply  stating  that  it  is  from  a  Sister  in  an 
American  unit  now  in  France,  who  heard 
me  speak  when  I  was  in  America. 

Isn't  that  luck  for  me  ?  You  would  never 
have  sent  me  your  picture.  I  should  never 
have  dared  to  ask  for  it.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
your  reticence  and  mine,  it  has  come  to 
me,  and  I  carry  it  with  me  in  my  tunic 
pocket. 

An  accident !  Yes,  but  so  many  acci- 
dents have  happened  to  me  and  you.  I 
begin  to  be  superstitious — superstitiously 
hopeful.  We  first  met  in  America,  the 
night  before  you  sailed.  Without  design 
129  K 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

we  meet  again  in  Paris.  We  spend  the 
whole  of  my  Paris-leave  together,  never 
planning  anything,  but  always  just  chancing 
to  be  together.  We  part  with  no  pledge 
given — only  the  memory  of  happiness  we 
have  shared.  Then,  after  weeks  and  weeks 
of  loneliness,  in  which  I  had  begun  to 
despair,  I  receive  your  picture  from  an 
anonymous  hand.  It  looks  as  though 
divine  providence  were  chaperoning  us. 
It's  made  me  feel  madly,  riotously  glad. 
It's  as  though  you  belonged  to  me — as 
though  all  of  this  that  I  write  were  not 
rank  impertinence,  but  proper  and  allowed. 
I  can  believe  at  this  moment  that  your 
heart  quickens  and  grows  tender  when  I 
think  of  you. 

Surely,  you,  too,  must  have  your  dreams. 
Is  it  too  absurd  to  think  that  I  walk  through 
them?  You  are  young,  as  I  am ;  though 
you're  in  the  midst  of  death  and  sorrow,  the 
reality  of  things  ended  cannot  absorb  you. 
It  must  make  you  the  more  hungry  for  the 
130 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

happier  future.  It  makes  me  want  to  live 
life  so  much  more  fully — to  grasp  every- 
thing that  is  kind  and  beautiful  in  my  two 
hands  and  hug  it  to  me.  If  ever  this 
inferno  ends,  what  a  use  I  will  make  of  the 
days  that  are  left !  Fancy  what  it  will 
mean  to  wake  up  one  morning  and  know 
that  there  are  whole  years  of  mornings 
before  you,  all  yours  with  no  threat  of 
sudden  extinction.  Just  at  present  I  can 
scarcely  believe  such  a  day  possible.  It 
would  not  be  wise  to  look  forward  to  it ; 
the  looking  forward  would  make  me  careful. 
In  this  game  one  cannot  afford  to  be  careful 

of  himself.     But,  my  dear 

I've  been  looking  again  at  your  picture. 
How  exquisite  you  are — how  cool  and 
distant !  I  glance  down  at  my  clothes, 
stained  with  the  corruption  of  the  trenches 
— what  am  I  to  you  ?  What  can  I  ever  be 
to  you  ?  How  coarse  and  strong  and 
brutal  I  am  when  contrasted  with  your 
fineness !  This  work  which  I  am  engaged 
131 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

on  does  not  make  one's  externals  splendid, 
whatever  improvements  it  may  make  in 
one's  soul.  We  do  not  look  heroic.  We 
look  pestiferous,  and  verminous,  and  very 
weary.  Never  again  will  any  of  us  be 
young  men.  I  do  not  understand  women. 
Perhaps  they  will  not  make  allowances  for 
what  has  happened  ;  it  has  happened  and  is 
happening  to  us  for  them.  Do  they  care  ? 
Perhaps  I  do  you  all  an  injustice,  and  you 
do  care  immensely. 

I  should  like  to  think  that  there  are 
women  in  the  world  who  will  be  very  com- 
passionate to  us  when  war  is  ended.  The 
Frenchwomen  are  like  that  already.  In 
their  hospitals  they  call  a  wounded  man 
"  Mon  petit,"  and  take  him  in  their  arms 
and  hold  his  head  against  their  breasts. 
That  is  what  we  need  most  when  our 
strength  is  spent — women  who  are  so 
shameless  in  their  pity  that  they  will 
mother  us.  We  daren't  ask  it  for  our- 
selves. If  you  don't  guess,  we  shall  never 
132 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

tell  you.  Yet  here,  in  the  trenches,  we 
dream  about  such  tenderness.  We've  been 
killing  men  to-day — we  shall  be  killing  men 
to-morrow — yet  our  hearts  are  the  hearts  of 
romantic  boys,  dreaming  all  the  while  about 
girls  like  you.  I  sometimes  wonder  what 
God  does  with  those  of  us  who  die  unsatis- 
fied. I  think  He  must  place  us  in  the  arms 
of  the  gentlest  of  His  woman-angels.  What 
we  crave  most  of  all  is  rest  and  the  merci- 
fulness of  a  woman  who  cares. 

Weak  and  foolish !  I  have  read  what  I 
have  written — yet  it  is  this  weakness  and 
foolishness  that  make  our  strength.  If  we 
did  not  build  a  barricade  with  our  bodies, 
your  body  would  be  wounded.  They  call 
the  maimed  in  France  "Les  Glorieux." 
These  disfigured  soldiers  on  returning  home, 
become  the  most  honoured  men  in  their 
villages.  Their  scars  are  not  repulsive  to 
the  women — they  are  the  brands  of  honour. 
Though  the  brand  has  been  stamped  upon 
their  faces,  the  scars  cause  no  disgust  in  the 
133 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

onlookers.  These  scourgings  of  war  make 
their  victims  "  glorious,"  because  they  have 
been  borne  for  their  nation.  There  are 
four  girls  offering  to  marry  every  maimed 
soldier  in  France  for  every  girl  who  is 
accepted. 

Ah,  how  these  French  shame  us  with 
their  superior  humanity !  We  have  called 
them  immoral,  lax,  sentimental — so  many 
foolish  words  in  the  past.  I  wish  to  God 
that  we  Anglo-Saxons  shared  some  of  the 
vices  that  produce  their  virtues.  We  pre- 
tend to  be  so  strong,  so  self-sufficient,  so 
indifferent  to  affection.  How  sick  I  am  of 
my  own  pose  of  spurious  manliness  !  What 
I  want  is  to  feel  your  arms  about  me  and 
your  lips  against  my  eyes,  whispering, 
"Mon  petit."  Why  should  I  be  ashamed 
to  tell  you  ?  Why  should  you  be  ashamed 
to  do  it  ?  I  understand  the  gratitude  of 
Jesus  for  the  woman  who  pitied  Him  so 
abandonedly  that  she  wiped  His  feet  with 
the  hairs  of  her  head.  She  was  trying  to 
134 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

say  to  Him  just  what  these  French  girls  say 
to  their  wounded,  "  Mon  petit,"  pressing  the 
weary  heads  against  their  breasts. 

Wild,  wild  talk,  my  little  American  !    I 
fear  you  would  not  understand  it. 


135 


THE  show  is  commencing  in  earnest. 
Every  day  we  have  casualties.    It's 
this  third  gun  position  that's  doing 
it — the  one  that  we're  building  just  behind 
our  own  front-line.     We  only  work  on  it  at 
night  and  when  the  moon  is  down  or  under 
cloud.     But  the  Huns  have  got  suspicious  ; 
they   must   have  heard   sounds   or   caught 
glimpses  of  us  by  the  light  of  their  flares.  At 
any  rate,  one  of  their  snipers  makes  us  his 
speciality  and  there's  a  machine-gun  which 
rakes   us   at  regular   intervals.      It's   really 
rather  exhilarating  dodging  the  beggars,  but 
I  hate  to  see  my  chaps  go  down.     In  the 
darkness  it's  so  difficult  to  tell  whether  any- 
one has  been   hurt.      The    men    pass   the 
whispered  question  from  gun-pit  to  gun-pit, 
"You  all  right?     Is  Bob  there?     Is  any- 
136 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

one  missing  ?  "  Then  the  word  comes  down 
to  me,  "  Coxon  doesn't  answer,  sir.  He 
must  have  got  it."  So  off  I  go  with  a 
couple  of  gunners  to  grope  through  the 
darkness  for  the  missing  man.  When  we 
find  him,  he  may  be  dead  or  unconscious. 
The  stretcher  has  to  be  fetched  and  men 
told  off  to  carry  him  out.  We're  muddied 
to  the  eyes  and  drenched,  but  we  work 
feverishly  till  the  first  blush  of  morning, 
then  we  sneak  away  with  the  shadows. 

Poor  Stephen  got  killed  up  there  the 
other  night.  You  remember  Stephen,  the 
officer  in  my  battery  who  never  had  any 
letters.  I  shall  always  remember  him  by 
that.  There  were  we,  when  mail  had  been 
brought  up  by  the  runners,  all  so  happy  for 
a  moment,  bending  above  our  affections. 
Stephen  just  went  on  working  ;  he  had 
nobody  who  cared.  It  was  the  sniper  who 
got  him  with  a  bullet  through  the  head. 
It  happened  the  night  before  Jack  Holt 
returned  from  Blighty,  so  in  a  way  Stephen 
137 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

gave  up  his  life  in  lending  Jack  his  leave- 
warrant. 

How  soon  one  forgets  his  pals  at  the 
Front !  We  have  no  time  for  remembering. 
Any  display  of  grief  is  a  waste  of  energy. 
Whether  man  or  officer,  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence, the  body  is  wrapped  up  in  a  blanket, 
unwashed  and  with  the  blood  of  the  wound 
dry  upon  it.  Nothing  is  removed  except 
letters  from  the  pockets.  The  boots  and 
leggings  are  left  on,  just  as  he  fell.  When 
the  mess-cart  comes  up  with  the  rations  at 
night,  the  body  is  sent  down  in  it  to  the 
waggon -lines.  Next  day,  in  a  desolate  field 
that  has  been  consecrated,  there  is  a  funeral. 
A  hole  is  dug  of  just  sufficient  size  to  take 
the  dead  man ;  there's  no  sense  in  making 
graves  too  comfortable  when  there's  so 
much  digging  to  be  done.  Certain  of  the 
gunners — officers  and  men  from  the  neigh- 
bouring batteries — are  sent  down  to  form 
an  escort.  There's  always  strong  compe- 
tition for  this  detail,  as  it  means  that  one 
138 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

can  get  a  bath  before  returning  to  the  guns. 
A  funeral  means  very  little  more  than  this 
to  any  of  us — a  chance  to  feel  clean  for 
twenty-four  hours.  The  ceremony  itself 
lasts  only  five  minutes  ;  then  we  turn  away 
and  mount  our  horses.  "  I  may  be  the 
next,"  is  what  we  are  all  thinking.  Well, 
I  hope  my  pals  get  a  good  wash,  with 
plenty  of  hot  water,  as  a  reward  for  attend- 
ing my  obsequies. 

Jack  Holt's  baby  was  born  while  he  was 
in  England.  Great  excitement  in  our  mess  ! 
It  turned  out  to  be  a  little  girl  and  we've 
all  agreed,  in  the  light  of  what  has  happened, 
that  she  must  be  called  Stephenetta.  We're 
blackmailing  the  mother  to  curse  her  child 
with  this  name  by  presenting  a  christening 
bowl  with  Stephenetta  engraved  upon  it. 
If  the  infant  isn't  called  that,  of  course  the 
bowl  will  have  to  be  returned. 

We  all  wish  that  Jack  could  get  a  respite 
from  righting,  now  that  he's  become  a  father. 
There's  only  one  way  in  which  this  can  be 
139 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

worked — by  his  applying  for  a  transfer  to 
another  branch  of  the  service.  If  he  did 
this,  he'd  have  to  live  in  England  for  a 
time  while  he  went  through  a  new  course 
of  training.  We  don't  want  the  father  of 
Stephenetta  killed  just  yet,  so  our  major 
has  persuaded  him  to  put  in  for  the  Flying 
Corps.  If  the  application  goes  through, 
he'll  be  at  least  made  certain  of  six  more 
months  of  living. 

The  dear  old  chap  has  brought  back  all 
kinds  of  snapshots  of  his  baby.  She's 
attired  in  everything — from  long  clothes  to 
Nature's  garment.  He's  really  quite  absurd 
about  her,  discovering  all  kinds  of  intel- 
ligence in  her  always-the-same  countenance. 
In  one  he  insists  that  she's  the  image  of 
himself ;  in  another  like  her  mother ;  in 
another  she  has  the  eyes  of  his  brother,  who 
was  killed  with  the  cavalry  on  the  Somme. 
Well,  we've  got  to  keep  him  from  being 
killed,  anyhow. 

Since  he  has  come  back  and  I've  seen 
140 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

how  life  can  clutch  at  a  man  through  a 
woman's  love  and  children,  I'm  glad  that 
I  did  not  tell  you.  I  don't  want  to  feel 
bound  up  with  life  too  much ;  I  see  every 
day  what  a  tremendous  lot  this  new  reason 
for  living  is  costing  Jack.  Those  two,  in 
England,  are  never  out  of  his  thoughts. 
He's  hungry  to  be  with  them.  I've  for- 
gotten which  of  the  Greek  philosophers  it 
was  who  said,  "  Love  no  man  too  much ; 
for  he  who  loves  too  much  lays  up  sorrow 
for  himself."  It's  terribly  true ;  love  exacts 
its  full  price  with  anxiety  for  every  moment 
of  exaltation.  And  yet  I  would  gladly 
have  Jack's  anxieties,  if  I  could  also  have 
his  certainties.  To  go  out  solitarily,  as 
Stephen  went,  is  lonely  work. 

A  selfish  argument !  He's  left  no  one 
to  cry.  He  did  his  job  and  asked  no  one 
to  share  the  burden  of  his  sacrifice.  This 
being  loved  and  being  remembered  that 
the  heart  so  passionately  yearns  for  is 
nothing  but  a  pathetic  survival  of  the  last 
141 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

bit  of  selfishness.  There  will  be  no  one 
either  to  remember  or  forget  when  a  hundred 
years  are  gone.  For  those  who  have  done 
their  duty  and  died,  surely  God  has  His 
recompense.  To  men  who  have  been  so 
unjust  to  themselves  in  their  wholesale 
abnegation,  God  can  hardly  fail  to  be 
generous. 

Though  it  were  for  the  last  time,  I  should 
so  much  like  to  hear  from  you.  That,  too, 
is  selfishness. 


142 


XIV 

I  HAVE  been  given  my  job  for  the 
big  show.  We  expect  that  when 
the  attack  starts  we  shall  be  able  to 
advance  to  a  great  depth.  If  our  infantry 
find  things  easy,  they  will  soon  get  out  of 
range  of  our  artillery,  so  we  are  building  a 
road  for  our  guns  right  up  to  the  front-line. 
On  the  day  of  the  show  this  road  will  have 
to  be  carried  on  across  No  Man's  Land, 
over  the  Hun  front-line  and  as  far  as  his 
support-trenches.  Most  of  this  work  will 
be  done  under  his  barrage,  and  I  have  been 
detailed  to  the  job.  I  shall  have  a  hundred 
men  under  me.  They'll  all  be  volunteers, 
as  they'll  only  have  what's  known  as  a  fifty- 
fifty  chance  of  coming  out  alive.  They'll 
have  to  be  stout  fellows  ;  our  orders  are  that 
our  wounded  are  to  be  left  where  they 
drop.  The  road  has  to  go  through  at  all 
143 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

costs.     We've  already  begun  the  first  part 
of  it.     We  work  only  at  night,  just  as  we 
did  on   the  forward  gun-pits.     It  depends 
on  the  moon  at  what  hour  we  start ;  but  it's 
usually  about  midnight.     There's  no  smok- 
ing allowed,  no   talking  above   a   whisper. 
The  moment  a  Hun  flare  shoots  up,  we  lie 
flat,    hugging   the    ground.      Then   up   we 
jump  and  commence  filling  shell-holes,  put- 
ting in  planks  in  the  worst  places  and  build- 
ing bridges  across  the  trenches.      I   think 
the  enemy  has  guessed  what  we're  about, 
for  he  keeps  a  whizz-bang  battery  eternally 
sweeping    and     searching    for    us ;    every 
night,  from  his  point  of  view,  he  has  some 
luck.     This  perpetual  murder  is  damnable 
and   splendid.     Our  men's   courage   leaves 
me  breathless.     It  is  only  the  undiscussed 
nobility  of  their  purpose  that  keeps  them 
going.     It  isn't  orders  ;  it  isn't  pay ;  it  isn't 
the  hope  of  decorations.     It  doesn't  matter 
who  or  what  our  men  were  in  civilian  life, 
they  all  show  the  same  capacity  for  sacrifice 
144 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

when  in  danger.  Some  of  them  were 
public-school  men ;  some  served  behind 
counters ;  some  were  day-labourers.  We 
have  several  who  have  been  in  gaol ;  they're 
every  bit  as  good  as  the  others.  War  has 
taught  me,  as  nothing  else  could  have  done, 
how  to  love  and  respect  my  brother-man. 
I  feel  humbled  in  the  presence  of  the 
patient  unconscious  pluck  of  these  fellows. 
I  wonder  whether  I,  in  their  shoes,  could 
be  as  good  under  the  same  circumstances. 
They  usually  carry  out  twice  as  much  as 
they're  ordered.  They're  rarely  sullen. 
They're  almost  always  cheery  and  helpful. 

But  the  long  strain  is  telling.  We  wish 
with  all  our  hearts  that  the  offensive  would 
commence.  It's  far  easier  to  go  through 
hell  for  twenty-four  hours  than  to  carry  on 
in  the  mud  filling  sand-bags,  building 
bridges,  working  feverishly  under  the  cover 
of  darkness,  digging  and  digging  till  every 
bone  in  one's  body  is  aching.  We  officers 
are  all  hard  at  spade-work  ;  we  do  it  for  the 
145  L 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

sake  of  example.  It's  no  good  urging  your 
men  to  dig  harder  if  you're  sitting  down 
with  a  cigarette  in  your  mouth  yourself. 

I  spoke  about  the  suspense  getting  on 
one's  nerves.  We've  had  a  curious  case  of 
it.  Poor  old  Stephen  had  a  dream  before 
he  died.  He  thought  that  he  was  in  a  wood 
and  came  across  a  little  white  cross  in  the 
tangled  underbrush.  On  stooping  down 
he  read,  "  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Jack 
Holt."  You  will  remember  that  Stephen 
was  killed  while  Jack  was  absent  in  Blighty. 
On  Jack's  return  he  said  to  me,  "  I  knew 
already  that  Stephen  was  dead."  Then  he 
told  me  exactly  the  same  dream,  only  when 
he  bent  down  to  examine  the  cross  he  read 
the  one  word — Stephen.  One  dream  has 
been  fulfilled,  but  the  other — I  hate  to 
record  it.  I  feel  as  if  the  mere  recording 
of  it  might  help  to  make  the  prophecy  come 
true.  We're  all  of  us  doing  our  best  to 
keep  Jack  out  of  danger  ;  when  some  piece 
of  especially  dirty  work  falls  to  his  share, 
146 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

we  usually  manage  to  get  the  major  to  let 
one  of  us  take  it.  Jack  can't  make  it  out, 
and  we  don't  tell  him.  He  thinks  that 
why  ticklish  jobs  don't  come  his  way  is 
because  the  major  distrusts  him.  I  hope 
his  transfer  to  the  Flying  Corps  goes 
through  before  the  show  starts  in  earnest. 

I  never  hear  from  you  at  all  nowadays. 
Directly  the  letters  arrived  at  the  guns  my 
heart  used  to  start  thumping :  I  was  so  sure 
that  there  would  be  one  from  you.  No- 
thing like  that  happens  now.  1  know  at  last 
for  certain  that  I  am  nothing  and  you  have 
forgotten  me.  And  yet  there  was  a  time 
when — or  do  I  deceive  myself  ?  You  could 
not  help  writing  to  me  if  you  had  ever 
cared.  You  are  breaking  the  news  to  me 
slowly  by  your  silence.  Perhaps  that  is  the 
kinder  way  to  do  it. 

Oh,    my  dear,  if  you  knew  what  you 

mean  to  me  in  this  small  handful  of  days 

that  are  left.     I  know  that  love  in  one  who 

is  not  loved,  must  always  seem  absurd.     I 

147 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

know  that  I  ought  to  smile  and  bow  in  a 
gallant  sort  of  fashion,  excusing  myself  for 
having  been  so  mistaken  as  to  have  troubled 
you  with  my  affections.  But  the  men  who 
used  to  love  like  that  loved  lightly ;  they 
had  scores  of  years  before  them  to  seek  their 
love  elsewhere.  I  love  you  as  a  man  loves 
only  once,  and  I  may  have  but  a  few  hours. 
You  do  not  know  this,  so  why  do  I  com- 
plain ?  Judging  from  anything  that  I  have 
said  or  written  to  you,  you  must  think  me 
the  merest  trifler.  Together  in  Paris  we 
just  verged  on  the  mildest  flirtation ;  then 
we  parted.  Nothing  of  my  doing  or  saying 
has  indicated  that  there  is  any  reason  why 
you  should  take  me  more  seriously.  There 
is  no  reason.  It  was  that  you  might  believe 
that  there  was  no  reason  that  I  have  acted 
in  the  way  I  have.  My  resentment  is  not 
for  you,  but  for  myself,  because,  in  the 
disguising  of  my  real  emotions  I  have 
succeeded  too  well. 

I  am  writing  this  by  a  guttering  candle 
148 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

pressed  into  the  wall  of  my  dug-out.  It's 
nearly  midnight.  I  can  hear  the  click  of 
picks  and  shovels  as  the  sergeant-major 
distributes  them  among  my  men.  In  a  few 
minutes  he'll  be  saluting  in  the  doorway, 
"Working-party  ready,  sir.  All  present  and 
correct."  Then  I  shall  go  out  to  where  the 
shadow-group  are  waiting  for  me  and  we 
shall  start  forward  for  the  front-line.  The 
first  part  of  the  wdy  is  between  tiers  of  gun- 
pits,  where  eighteen-pounders  spit  fire  every 
few  seconds.  Then  we  come  to  a  field  full 
of  wire-entanglements,  where  we  have  to 
tread  warily.  At  last  we  strike  a  road, 
about  three  inches  deep  in  mud.  It  is 
thronged  by  night  with  every  kind  of 
vehicle  ;  by  day  it  is  dead  as  the  Sahara 
Desert.  Down  this  we  plod,  splashed  by 
passing  lorries,  till  we  reach  an  ammunition 
dump  and  a  small  trench-tramway.  This 
tram- way  we  follow,  to  where  the  Hun  is 
shooting  up  his  flares,  then  we  sneak  across 
the  open,  just  behind  the  front-line,  to  the 
149 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

point  which  our  road  has  reached  at  present. 
There   we  shall   work  like  moles.     Orders 
will  be  passed    along    in   whispers.      The 
wounded  will   be   carried   back   in  silence. 
The  path  for  the  guns  will  be  pushed  into 
No  Man's  Land.      At   the  first   streak   of 
dawn  we  shall   creep  back  exhausted.      I 
can  hear  the  men  joking  outside.     They're 
laying  odds  as  to  who  will  get  a  blighty  to- 
night.    One   man   seems    pretty   sure   he's 
going  to  get  it ;  he  prefers  it  in  his  left  arm, 
he   says,   because  that  will  leave  his  right 
O.K.   to  place  about  the  waist  of  his  girl. 
Unconquerable  fellows  ! 

There's  the  sergeant-major.  "  Working- 
party  all  present  and  correct,  sir."  I  nod. 
I'm  coming.  I've  been  a  beast,  my  dear, 
in  some  of  the  things  that  I've  written. 
Some  day,  when  you're  in  love,  you'll 
understand  and  pardon.  I  hope  he'll  be  a 
decent  fellow.  Because  I've  talked  with 
you  I  feel  happier ;  you  are  nearer  to  me 
now.  We  shall  do  good  work  to-night. 
150 


XV 

IT  is  the  last  day ;  to-morrow  the  show 
commences.     My  men  are  all  chosen. 
In  the  choosing  of  them  what  trumps 
they  proved  themselves  !    First  the  gunners 
of  the  brigade  were  called  together;  there 
were  to  be  fifty  of  them.     Then  the  colonel 
and  I  went  down  to  the  waggon-lines  and 
asked  for  the  same  number  of  volunteers 
from  the  drivers.     In  both  cases  the  colonel 
made  the  same  speech  to  them.    They  were 
needed   to  follow  up  the  infantry  and   to 
build  the  road  in  advance  of  the  guns.     He 
explained  to   them   fully  their  chances  of 
wounds  and  death  :   that  the  moment  the 
attack  commenced  the  enemy  would  clap 
down  a  barrage  on  No  Man's  Land  to  pre- 
vent reinforcements  from  coming  up ;  that 
they  would  have  to  work  in  the  very  heart 
151 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

of  this  barrage,  and  that  if  they  were 
wounded  they  would  have  to  lie  where 
they  fell.  Then  he  asked  who  would  offer 
himself  for  the  job.  Both  at  the  guns  and 
the  waggon-lines  every  man  stepped  out. 
Our  difficulty  was  to  select  the  candidates 
for  death  without  giving  offence  to  the 
others.  I  have  two  officers  under  me  and 
four  N.C.O.'s.  I  have  divided  my  party  up 
into  four  groups  :  two  to  fill  in  shell-holes, 
one  to  cut  wire,  and  one  to  bridge  the  Hun 
trenches.  Most  of  our  materials  for  this 
work  are  already  hidden  in  the  craters  out 
in  No  Man's  Land 

You've  no  idea  how  exhilarated  we  all 
feel.  I  suppose  people  at  home  imagine 
that  when  a  destruction  such  as  this  is 
pending  we  are  wrought  up  and  stern. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  During  the  wearisome 
preparations  we  were,  but  now  that  we're 
in  for  it  up  to  the  neck  we're  wildly  happy. 
I  can't  explain  our  psychology — I  suppose 
it  is  that  danger  makes  a  challenge  to  the 
152 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

spirit.  By  this  time  to-morrow  we  shall 
certainly  some  of  us  be  dead,  but  we  shall 
also  have  achieved  sudden  glory.  Out  in 
the  sunshine  you  can  hear  singing  every- 
where. The  servants  are  polishing  up  their 
officers'  leather  and  buttons,  so  that  when 
the  show  starts  they  may  look  spick  and 
span.  My  chap,  without  a  word  from  me, 
has  got  out  my  swaggerest  breeches  and 
tunic.  It's  the  same  with  the  men.  If 
we  die,  we  shall  die  swells.  We've  done 
everything  that  can  be  done  now ;  there's 
nothing  that  has  not  been  thought  of 
ahead.  We  have  chosen  new  waggon-lines, 
nearer  to  the  guns,  so  that  the  horses  may 
be  brought  up  as  soon  as  they  are  wanted. 
My  brigade  will  fire  for  four  hours  to- 
morrow, then  hook  in  and  move  forward 
to  where  the  Huns  are  living  now.  As 
soon  as  this  position  is  vacated  by  the  guns, 
it  will  become  the  new  waggon-lines.  As 
the  advance  rolls  forward,  each  battery  will 
hook  in  and  move  ahead  in  rotation,  the 
153 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

one  which  is  the  last  becoming  the  first. 
Goodness  knows  where  we  shall  sleep  to- 
morrow night.  The  bringing  up  of  the 
guns  will  probably  be  expensive  both  in 
horses  and  men.  The  enemy  will  be  sure 
to  shell  our  road  under  the  direction  of 
his  balloons  and  aeroplanes.  It's  a  big 
game,  and  the  game  allures  us.  It  isn't 
often  given  to  men  to  have  their  courage 
so  tested ;  no  one  knows  what  chances 
he  may  have  for  heroism.  I  think  it's 
that,  the  consciousness  that  we  are  helping 
to  save  lives  and  to  make  history,  that 
elates  us. 

As  I  write,  some  officers  from  other  bat- 
teries have  dropped  into  our  mess.  They've 
got  a  pack  of  cards  out  and  are  playing 
poker.  Everybody's  laughing  and  merry. 
We're  not  at  all  what  people  at  home  would 
imagine  us. 

The  spirit  of  risk  has  got  into  my  blood. 
I  can  think  of  you  quietly,  contentedly  now 
— not  selfishly,  as  I  have  been  doing.     How 
154 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

grateful  I  am  that  we  met.  What  a  jolly 
companion  you  were  to  me.  I  haven't  lost 
you  yet.  If  I  come  through  to-morrow 
safely,  I've  almost  a  mind  to  write  you  a 
real  love-letter.  I  can  picture  you  reading 
it,  if  I  were  to  send  it.  Those  straight 
brows  of  yours  would  draw  together.  The 
more  impassioned  I  was,  the  more  puzzled 
you'd  become.  It  would  all  be  so  sudden 
after  my  carefully  proper  letters — letters 
which,  however  proper,  you  have  not 
answered.  I'll  drop  you  another  line  pre- 
sently— a  quite  polite  one,  saying  what  a 
good  time  we're  having  and  how  all  the 
mud  has  vanished ;  a  letter  like  all  the 
others  I  have  sent,  giving  you  the  im- 
pression that  war  is  fun.  Ah,  well,  so  it 
is — fun  punctuated  by  long  intervals  of 
blood. 

Some  time  ago  I  mentioned  that  I'd  been 

wounded  in   the   head.      I   still   wear   my 

bandages,  and  am  so  vain  that  I  wouldn't 

have  you  see  me  for  the  world.     The  poison 

155 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

has  broken  out  all  over  my  body  and  I  look 
a  leper.  A  good  many  of  us  are  like  that ; 
I  suppose  we  get  it  from  eating  insufficient 
vegetables  and  living  in  damp  dug-outs. 
I'm  glad  I  didn't  let  the  M.O.  send  me 
back  to  hospital ;  I'll  go  and  get  attended 
to  when  this  attack  is  ended.  Or,  perhaps, 
I  will — one  never  knows  one's  luck. 

I  wonder  what  you're  doing.  I  picture 
you  in  your  children's  hospital,  going  from 
cot  to  cot  and  playing  the  mother  to  the 
motherless.  I  keep  on  writing  to  the  old 
address,  believing  that  you  are  still  there. 

Jack  has  asked  me  to  take  his  hand  at 
poker.  He  wants  to  do  what  I'm  doing— 
write  to  the  girl  whom  he  loves  best  in  the 
world.  I'll  perhaps  add  more  later. 

It's  ten  o'clock  at  night.  Every  one  is 
sleeping.  I  tried  to,  but  couldn't.  I've 
written  to  all  my  people — they  may  be  the 
last  letters  they  will  get.  I've  written  one 
to  you  as  well.  Now,  having  ceased  writing, 
156 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I'm  just  thinking  aloud.  I've  told  my 
servant,  if  anything  happens  to  me,  to  burn 
all  the  papers  he  finds  in  my  kit-bag.  So 
you'll  never  know,  my  dear ;  I  shall  slip 
out  of  your  life  and  leave  you  untroubled. 
Wasn't  it  wise  of  me  to  do  as  I  have  done  ? 
You've  not  had  the  inconvenience  of  re- 
fusing me.  I've  not  had  the  pain  of  being 
turned  down.  I've  kept  the  illusion  that 
you  are  mine  to  the  end. 

At  midnight  my  servant  is  supposed  to 
rouse  me.  He's  a  good  fellow  and  is  sure 
to  have  something  hot  ready  for  me.  I 
shall  put  on  my  revolver  and  Sam  Browne, 
then  away  with  my  men  to  the  front.  I've 
chosen  a  trench  just  behind  the  infantry's 
j  umping-off  point :  1  believe  it  will  be  out 
of  the  Hun  barrage.  We  shall  hide  there 
till  about  half  an  hour  after  the  show  has 
started.  Then  I  shall  go  forward  with  the 
other  officers  and  runners  to  reconnoitre 
the  road  through  the  Hun  country.  I  feel 
the  way  I  used  at  Oxford  the  night  before 
157 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

Eights  Week  commenced — eager  and  ner- 
vous and  wishing  it  were  ended.  I  used  to 
row  stroke  then.  I'm  to  do  something  of 
the  same  kind  to-morrow — I've  to  set  the 
pace  and  keep  the  heart  in  the  chaps.  I 
wonder  how  many  to-morrows  life  has  for 
me. 

Bill  'Lane  is  talking  in  his  sleep.  He 
thinks  he's  surrounded  by  Germans  and  he's 
refusing  to  surrender.  It's  hard  on  him 
that  he  couldn't  get  married  before  this 
racket.  If  he  were  married,  it  would  be 
still  harder  on  the  girl.  I  suppose  there  are 
heaps  of  men  to-night  who  are  thinking  just 
such  thoughts. 

Why  was  it  that  you  couldn't  care  for 
me  ?  Lately  I've  often  asked  that  question. 
It's  so  evident  that  you  do  not  care.  Queer 
that  I  should  have  gone  through  life  and 
never  have  attracted  love  !  There  are  so 
many  women  in  the  world  that  there 

ought     to     have    been    one There's 

hardly  a  driver  or  a  gunner  in  the  battery, 
158 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

to  judge  by  their  letters,  who  hasn't  got  a 
sweetheart  somewhere.  There  are  some 
who  have  many.  You  see,  I  learn  all  their 
intimate  affairs  from  censoring  their  letters. 
I'm  not  regretting.  Don't  think  that.  To 
have  been  allowed  to  feel  towards  you  as  I 
have  has  been  quite  reward  enough.  It 
was  wonderful  that  the  most  magic  thing  in 
life  should  have  come  to  me  just  as  life  was 
nearly  ended.  But  it  may  not  be  ended. 
There's  always  the  chance  that  I  may  live 
to  come  back.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should 
care  to  come  back  if  you  did  not  want  me. 
There  would  be  a  fitting  completeness  about 

dying  now.     And  then 

Shall  I  tell  you  ?  Ever  since  war  started 
I  have  hoped  to  die  in  France.  So  many 
others  have  died  that  it  would  not  seem  fair 
if  I  came  back.  This  is  the  one  chance  I 
shall  ever  have  of  laying  down  my  life  for 
other  people.  I  don't  want  to  miss  it.  I 
have  missed  you  and  so  many  things  that  I 
don't  want  to  miss  that.  The  body  hampers 
159 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

one ;  for  my  part,  I  could  easily  do  with- 
out it. 

I  can  hear  my  servant  stirring.  Ah,  he's 
just  looked  in  and  was  surprised  to  see  me 
dressed !  He's  a  good  chap  and  has  a  real 
affection  for  me.  He's  been — how  shall  I 
put  it  ? — almost  motherly  to  me.  Very 
often  to-day  he's  said  to  me,  "  I  hope  you'll 
come  through  it  all  right,  sir.  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  look  after  another  officer." 

He's  splitting  wood  now,  so  as  to  light  a 
fire  and  boil  some  cocoa  for  me.  Now  he's 
getting  out  my  shaving-kit,  so  that  I  may 
go  forward  with  an  appearance  that  will  do 
him  credit.  He  wants  to  know  if  I'm  going 
to  write  much  longer.  I've  told  him  that 
I'm  not. 

You're  sleeping.  Your  heart  has  been 
always  sleeping  when  I  have  bent  across  it. 
That  does  not  make  me  love  you  less. 
Perhaps,  if  all  life  lay  before  us,  I  should 
have  tried  to  arouse  it.  But  there  was  never 
any  time  for  us.  We  met  too  late  for  that. 
160 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  shall  think  of  you  as  I  lie  in  hiding  with 
my  hundred  men  .waiting  for  zero  hour, 
when  the  thunder  of  the  guns  will  open  up. 
Good  night,  my  little  girl,  whom  I  did  not 
try  to  awaken. 


161 


XVI 

HOW  many  days  is  it  since  last  I 
spoke  to  you  ?  All  that  has 
happened  in  the  interval  seems  a 
tremendous  nightmare.  I'm  sitting  in  a 
smashed  Hun  gun-pit,  seven  miles  away 
from  where  1  was  before  the  offensive 
started.  We  use  this  gun-pit  as  our 
observing  post.  It's  on  a  ridge,  and  from 
here  one  can  gaze  for  miles  across  a  plain 
girdled  with  towns.  From  the  chimneys 
in  the  towns  plumes  of  smoke  are  drifting, 
but  in  the  plain,  where  thousands  of  men 
are  in  hiding,  nothing  stirs.  Every  acre  of 
it,  as  far  as  eye  can  reach,  is  enemy  country. 
Far  away  balloons  gaze  down  on  us.  Fall- 
ing precipitously  from  the  ridge  into  the 
plain  is  a  slope  which  was  once  thickly 
wooded.  The  branches  are  stripped  clean 
162 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

of  leaves  by  shrapnel,  and  the  underbrush  is 
putrescent  with  human  bodies.  Everything 
is  dead. 

For  myself  I  am  a  sight  to  mock  at.  My 
swaggerest  tunic  and  breeches  are  swagger 
no  longer.  For  nearly  a  fortnight  I've  not 
had  them  off;  they're  caked  with  mud.  I 
need  shaving.  My  head  is  on  fire  with  the 
old  wound  and  the  bandages  are  dirty.  To 
complete  the  portrait,  I  got  a  slight  wound 
in  my  shoulder  which  has  stiffened.  You 
wouldn't  want  to  walk  through  Paris  with 
me  now.  The  men  who  are  with  me  look 
still  more  disreputable.  They  live  in  a 
dug-out  which  must  always  have  been 
verminous,  and  is  ten  times  worse  now. 
The  hot  spring  sunshine  on  the  corpses  has 
started  a  plague  of  flies.  Directly  you  set 
foot  in  a  dug-out  you  can  hear  the  buzzing 
of  their  wings  as  they  rise  up  to  settle  on 
you.  Here  in  the  open  it's  not  quite  so  bad, 
but  if  one  doesn't  eat  quickly  his  food 
becomes  black  with  them.  I  sleep  in  the 
163 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

open,  in  the  gun-pit  beneath  the  battered 
gun,  and  take  my  chances  of  shell-fire.  I 
can't  stand  the  smell  of  decay  which  one 
gets  underground. 

We  have  to  be  careful  how  we  move 
about ;  the  least  sign  of  our  presence  brings 
down  a  barrage.  And  yet,  for  all  the 
rottenness  of  our  situation,  we  enjoy  our- 
selves in  a  terrific  fashion.  We've  driven 
the  devils  back  seven  miles,  which  is  not 
so  bad. 

The  show  was  glorious.  I  have  never 
experienced  anything  like  it.  The  last 
time  I  wrote  to  you  was  just  before  I  went 
forward.  Well,  it  was  about  2.30  a.m. 
when  we  dropped  into  the  trench  in  which 
we  were  to  hide.  It  was  bitterly  cold. 
The  men  joked  in  whispers,  keeping  their 
spirits  up,  making  bets  with  one  another 
as  to  who  would  get  wounded  first.  They 
didn't  have  to  wait  very  long  to  find  out, 
for  some  battery  commenced  to  fire  pre- 
matures, which  got  us  in  the  back.  Towards 
164 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

four  o'clock  everything  grew  silent — literally 
silent  as  death.  All  night  in  thin  flakes  the 
snow  had  been  falling.  Even  that  stopped 
now.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  listen 
with  bated  breath.  Slowly  the  darkness 
began  to  melt ;  the  faint  dawn  crept 
throughout  the  horizon.  It  was  a  sign. 

We  consulted  our  watches,  counting  first 
the  minutes,  then  the  seconds.  There  was 
a  gasp  ;  we  had  reached  zero  hour.  As  if 
the  heavens  had  fallen,  hell  broke  loose  with 
a  crash.  Behind  us,  like  hounds  in  mon- 
strous kennels,  the  guns  commenced  barking 
in  a  deafening  chorus.  Where  our  shrapnel 
was  bursting,  snakes  of  fire  darted  across 
the  Hun  trenches.  A  little  ahead  of  us, 
with  a  triumphant  shouting,  our  infantry 
leapt  up ;  we  could  see  them,  silhouetted 
against  the  pale  background  of  the  sky, 
pouring  over  the  top  into  No  Man's  Land. 
The  Hun  took  a  good  five  minutes  to  reply, 
then  down  came  his  barrage  like  the  stamp- 
ing heel  of  one  who  was  tormented.  Our 
165 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

second  wave  of  infantry  rose  up  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  smoke  of  the  carnage. 
The  air  flapped  in  tatters.  Our  ears  were 
deafened  with  explosions.  On  the  other 
side  of  No  Man's  Land  flames  spurted  where 
our  chaps  were  bombing  the  defences  and 
dug-outs.  One  had  to  keep  himself  from 
imagining.  Of  a  sudden  something  even 
more  terrific  happened.  The  Hun  started 
to  send  over  liquid  fire.  His  shells  burst 
about  thirty  feet  above  the  ground 
and  poured  down  flames  as  if  from 
buckets. 

I  waited  for  half  an  hour,  then,  leaving 
my  men  in  charge  of  one  officer,  I  took  the 
other  one  with  me,  together  with  four 
N.C.O.'s  and  four  runners.  We  carried 
Union  Jacks  on  poles  to  mark  the  direction, 
and  pegs,  with  tapes  attached,  to  stake  out 
the  road  afterwards. 

From    now    on   I   have    no    very   clear 
recollections,    only  general   impressions.     I 
remember  the  wild  laughter  of  the  chaps 
166 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

who  accompanied  me,  and  the  curiously 
winged  sense  I  had,  as  if  I  had  already  cast 
aside  my  body.  For  a  moment  we  halted 
on  the  top  of  our  trenches.  No  Man's 
Land  boiled  and  bubbled  like  rocks  over 
which  a  tumultuous  sea  was  breaking.  It 
was  strewn  with  the  dead  and  dying.  There 
were  men  with  broken  spines  and  legs, 
clawing  their  way  on  hands  and  knees 
through  the  mud  to  get  back  to  safety. 
Every  thirty  feet  or  so  shells  were  detonat- 
ing, throwing  up  a  spray  of  death.  How 
human  reason  could  survive  was  a  marvel. 
It  seems  unreal  to  me — a  horror  which  I 
have  read  about. 

In  every  curtain  of  fire  there  is  a  rent, 
which  can  be  found  if  you  keep  your  head 
and  look  for  it — a  place  where  the  fire  of 
two  enemy  batteries  has  not  joined  up  and 
has  left  a  gap.  I  found  one ;  in  single  file 
we  commenced  our  advance.  In  old  shell- 
holes  to  right  and  left  of  us  dead  men  were 
lying,  men  who  had  been  caught  by  the 
W7 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

liquid  fire,  and  had  flung  themselves  into 
these  pools  to  put  the  flames  out.  The 
pools  were  all  cochineal  in  colour  as  if  with 
blood,  but  really  with  the  explosives. 
Wounded  chaps  called  to  us  to  help  them 
or  simply  gazed  at  us  desperately.  We 
passed  them — we  had  no  time  to  help — 
and  came  to  the  Hun  wire  entanglements. 
Here  we  planted  the  first  Union  Jack,  and 
told  off  an  N.C.O.  and  a  runner  to  tape  the 
road  back. 

The  Hun  front-line  was  a  sight  which  1 
never  shall  forget.  I  suppose  it  must  have 
been  five  feet  broad  and  at  least  six  in 
depth.  It  was  a  river  of  blood,  choked  to 
the  brim  with  dead  and  dying  Germans. 
They  lay  there  silent,  waxen,  with  eyes  wide 
but  dulled.  Many  of  them  were  pounded 
into  pulp.  They  had  all  been  alive  that 
morning. 

I  shall  sicken  you  if  I  go  on.  No  words 
can  convey  the  picture ;  it  was  horribly  in- 
human, pitiful  and  glorious.  You  won't 
168 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

understand  the  last  adjective.  No  one  could 
who  had  not  been  there.  It  was  glorious 
because  it  was  so  immense. 

Four  times  we  planted  our  flags,  and 
each  time  sent  an  N.C.O.  with  runners 
back.  At  the  farthest  point  we  met  the 
first  batch  of  prisoners.  They  were  so  foul 
that  you  could  smell  them  at  a  hundred 
yards.  There  were  about  fifty  of  them ; 
their  sole  escort  was  a  Tommy  with  a 
bloody  bandage  round  his  head  and  a  rifle 
cocked,  whom  they  carried  shoulder  high 
on  a  stretcher.  Far  away,  through  the  haze 
of  battle,  we  could  see  our  infantry  still 
advancing,  following  behind  our  bursting 
shells.  Then  we  turned  back  to  get  our 
men  to  work.  I  found  them  in  the  trench 
where  I  had  left  them,  and  was  about  to 
lead  them  in  through  the  barrage  when  our 
colonel  came  up.  "  You'd  better  wait,"  he 
said.  "  Surely  you're  not  going  to  take 
them  in  through  that  ? "  I  told  him  that 
I  was.  Before  he  could  give  me  orders  to 
169 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  contrary  a  shell  got  him.  I  have  since 
heard  that  he  is  dead. 

My  chaps  were  splendid.  There  wasn't 
one  who  didn't  work  his  heart  out.  Very 
soon  the  Huns  commenced  gassing,  and  we 
had  to  wear  our  masks.  It's  no  joke  to 
wield  a  spade  in  a  mask,  but  these  chaps 
never  stopped.  Every  now  and  then  one 
would  topple  over.  Sometimes  he  proved 
to  be  gassed  and  sometimes  wounded.  If 
wounded,  we  bound  him  up  and  left  him. 
If  gassed,  we  led  him  out  of  the  barrage  to 
recover;  when  he  was  better  he  invariably 
came  back.  Their  pluck  was  superhuman. 

Presently  I  got  sick  of  having  to  leave 
my  wounded  men  where  they  fell,  so  I 
started  on  a  search  of  the  Hun  dug-outs. 
Most  of  the  former  tenants  were  dead,  but 
every  now  and  then  I  would  find  some  in 
hiding.  I  routed  a  gang  of  them  out  and 
turned  them  into  stretcher-bearers. 

It  was  about  midday  when  our  first  battery 
came  up  and  got  into  action  just  behind  us. 
170 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

It  hadn't  been  there  long  when  an  enemy 
plane  swooped  down  and  turned  its  machine- 
gun  on  them.  The  gunners  who  weren't 
carrying  ammunition,  or  firing,  had  to  stand 
to  with  rifles  and  try  to  pick  off  the  pilot. 
What  happened  to  them  afterwards  I  don't 
know,  for  the  building  of  the  road  carried 
us  beyond  them.  From  now  on,  brigade 
after  brigade  of  field  guns  commenced  to 
overtake  us.  They  followed  us  so  closely 
that  it  was  difficult  to  keep  ahead.  The 
moment  they  had  reached  us  they  unhooked 
and  got  into  action. 

One  of  the  officers  under  me  had  been 
killed  by  this  time  and  very  many  of  the 
men.  In  the  afternoon  about  two  hundred 
more  reported  and  we  made  better  progress. 
But  towards  evening  the  rain  descended  and 
our  progress  ended.  The  battle-field  became 
a  sea  of  mud,  and  the  road  which  we  had 
built  was  cut  up  too  badly  for  any  more 
traffic. 

We  were  weary  and  drenched  to  the  bone 
171 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

when  we  started  back  in  search  of  our 
battery.  Our  enthusiasm  was  exhausted. 
Through  the  gathering  shadows  burying- 
parties  were  groping,  picking  up  the  dead. 
At  the  guns  nothing  had  been  built  but 
the  gun-pits  ;  they  were  little  more  than 
soggy  platforms.  Rain  was  trickling  with 
a  malicious  constancy  in  every  direction. 
My  batman  had  found  what  was  left  of  a 
dug-out,  of  which  he  had  dispossessed  several 
corpses.  There  he  had  spread  my  sleeping- 
sack.  I  was  too  tired  to  eat  or  undress  ; 
having  taken  my  boots  off  and  drunk  a  tot 
of  rum  I  fell  sound  asleep  till  morning. 

Between  the  days  that  followed  I  cannot 
distinguish.  They  were  full  of  adventures 
and  physical  misery.  It  snowed  and  rained  ; 
we  were  never  dry.  We  were  always  push- 
ing our  guns  a  little  farther  up.  We  lived 
always  in  the  mud.  What  we  ate  didn't 
seem  to  matter.  It  was  for  the  most  part 
iron  rations — bully  beef  and  hard  tack.  So 
much  for  our  miseries. 
172 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

Our  adventures  were  made  up  of  going 
forward  to  the  ridge  to  observe.  They  were 
real  adventures.  One  never  knew  where 
our  infantry  were  for  two  days  together. 
We  had  got  away  from  trench  warfare ;  for 
the  moment  we  were  engaged  in  a  moving 
battle,  which  consisted  in  taking  pot-shots 
from  haystacks  and  shell-holes.  The  enemy 
had  been  driven  down  into  the  plain  ;  it  was 
the  business  of  the  gunners  to  keep  him 
there.  We  got  chances  at  many  targets. 
The  plain  was  dotted  with  towns  in  which 
the  enemy  troops  were  concentrated.  Along 
sunken  roads  and  between  hedges  his  batta- 
lions were  continually  marching.  All  day, 
from  sunrise  to  sunset,  we  observers  pushed 
our  telephone  lines  forward,  that  we  might 
send  back  word  of  latest  developments. 

I  think  the  most  wonderful  sight  I  saw 
was  our  cavalry  riding  down  to  capture  a 
certain  town.  I  was  hidden  in  a  haystack 
within  ten  feet  of  them  as  they  passed,  and 
could  see  the  whole  progress  of  their  charge. 
173 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

This  is  what  I  saw.  When  they  reached 
the  plain,  they  bent  low  in  their  saddles  and 
set  off  at  a  gallop.  They  came  to  a  village 
from  which  Huns  came  out  carrying  the 
white  flag  before  them.  Our  chaps  halted, 
parleyed,  swung  round  on  their  haunches, 
and  came  tearing  back,  lying  low  along 
their  horses'  necks.  I  learnt  afterwards 
what  the  Huns  had  said  :  "  We  have  two 
whizz-bang  batteries  trained  on  you  and  any 
quantity  of  machine  guns.  You  had  better 
surrender."  It  was  true.  As  our  men  com- 
menced hurriedly  to  retire,  the  Huns  opened 
up.  I  saw  horses  cut  clean  in  half,  and 
men  crashing  from  their  saddles  in  all  direc- 
tions. When  they  again  passed  my  hay- 
stack there  was  not  more  than  half  of 
them  left.  They  seemed  demented  ;  death 
pounded  behind  them. 

But  even  more  dramatic  was  the  scene  I 

witnessed  two  evenings  ago.     I  was  forward 

as  liaison  officer.     Suddenly,  as  the  sun  was 

setting,  the  whole  Hun  front-line  started  to 

174 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

move  back.  They  looked  like  a  swarm  of 
ants  as  they  rushed  eastwards.  1  phoned 
the  news  to  my  Division,  and  was  recalled 
to  help  to  guide  the  batteries  up.  What 
a  night  I  had  !  Everywhere  horses  were 
foundering.  The  mud  was  like  glue ;  it 
held  them  down  when  they  fell.  By  dawn 
only  one  of  our  batteries  was  in  action,  and 
our  infantry  were  due  to  attack.  Again  I 
went  forward,  only  to  find  that  the  infantry 
were  out  of  range  of  the  guns.  As  I  came 
into  a  certain  town,  the  Huns  were  engaged 
in  street  fighting. 

Our  battery  is  in  that  town  now,  and  the 
line  has  again  moved  forward.  The  wire  in 
front  of  the  support  trenches  has  been  put 
up  behind  us.  If  the  battle  goes  against  us, 
we  can't  pull  out.  We're  what's  known  as 
a  "sacrifice  battery."  We  hold  the  Hun 
until  our  guns  are  knocked  out.  This  would 
all  have  sounded  terrible  to  me  before  war 
started,  but  now,  in  a  strange  way,  I  rejoice 
in  the  terror  of  it.  It's  splendid  to  find  that 
175 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

you   can  gaze  into  the  eyes  of  death  and 
remain  undaunted. 

I  think  of  you,  as  I  shall  think  of  you  to 
the  end,  if  the  end  comes.  I  do  not  want 
you  less.  I  want  you  more  perhaps,  only 
not  so  selfishly.  I  realize  that  death  does 
not  finish  all  things.  Love  lives  on.  There 
are  other  worlds — there  must  be  so  many 
other  worlds — in  which  I  shall  surely  meet 
you  if  I  miss  you  in  this  one.  That  I, 
so  poor  and  human  and  puny,  should  be 
capable  of  this  largeness  of  spirit,  gives  me 
confidence  that  God's  scheme  for  us  must 
be  greater  than  we  have  guessed.  He  can- 
not be  smaller  than  the  souls  He  has 
created.  You  may  not  need  me  in  this 
existence.  We  may  have  met  too  late  to 
be  much  to  each  other.  But  I  cannot  think 
that  love  is  wasted.  Those  men  whom  I 
saw  piled  high  in  trenches  so  loved  their 
ideal  that  they  could  die  for  it.  There  is 
something  god-like  in  such  self-abnegation. 
"  God  so  loved  the  world  that  He  gave  His 
176 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

only  begotten  Son  ;  "  these  men  so  loved 
the  world  that  they  gave  themselves. 
Though  the  ideal  for  which  they  die  may  be 
mistaken,  whether  they  be  English,  French, 
or  Germans,  they  seem  somehow  to  strive 
up  towards  God's  level.  To  do  that  is 
religion.  I  am  almost  jealous  of  them — 
which  must  seem  strange  after  my  ghastly 
description  of  them. 

And  yet  there  is  always  you,  you,  you,  to 
lure  me  back  from  death.  You  with  your 
grey  eyes  and  your  intense  atmosphere  of 
rest — you  with  your  unconscious  woman- 
liness. I  should  like  to  know  that  when  I 
am  dead  you  would  take  me  in  your  arms 
and  give  me  the  kisses  which,  while  I  lived, 
were  not  allowed.  That  wish  is  mere  senti- 
ment. What  good  would  your  lips  do  me 
when  mine  were  silent  ? 


177  N 


XVII 

WHERE  we  are  now  we  are  com- 
pelled   to    lead   a   topsy-turvy 
sort  of  an  existence.     We  have 
pulled   into  an   orchard   among  a   pile   of 
ruins,  in  full  sight  of  the  Hun.     We  have 
knocked  holes  in  a  wall,  through  which  we 
have  pushed  the  muzzles  of  our  guns ;  for 
the  rest,  we  dare  not  build  any  overhead 
cover,  but  have  simply  strung  up  camou- 
flage netting. 

By  day  we  dare  not  move  about  for  f)ear 
we  should  be  spotted.  Enemy  planes  are 
continually  passing  over ;  one  man  seen 
walking  might  give  away  our  position.  So 
we  hide  in  holes  in  the  ground  by  day  and 
work  like  fiends  at  night.  There's  another 
reason  why  we  have  to  lie  low  :  this  place  is 
continually  under  bombardment.  We  are 
178 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

here  to  fire  with  open  sights  if  the  enemy 
breaks  through ;  meanwhile  we  fire  only  in 
attacks  and  when  an  S.O.S.  has  been  sent 
up.  It's  pretty  difficult  for  the  Hun  to 
pick  up  our  flash  when  all  the  batteries 
behind  us  are  kicking  up  a  dust.  What  a 
life !  Who  would  have  dreamt  in  1913 
that  we  should  be  taking  part  in  such  an 
adventure  ?  We're  all  dog-tired,  but  full  of 
fight.  Our  infantry  haven't  been  relieved 
since  the  first  day  of  the  offensive.  They're 
gaunt  and  haggard  and  determined ;  they're 
bone-weary  and  full  of  passionate  contempt 
for  the  Hun.  When  they  aren't  fighting, 
they're  sleeping. 

The  dug-outs  in  which  we  live  are  many 
steps  underground.  The  Hun  left  them  in 
a  filthy  condition ;  by  degrees  we're  getting 
them  cleaner.  We  scarcely  dare  to  light 
fires :  the  smoke  would  make  our  presence 
known.  We  have  very  little  water — only 
bottled  stuff  that  the  enemy  left.  We  can't 
trust  the  wells :  they're  usually  poisoned 
179 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

either  by  accident  or  intent.  There  was 
one  we  used  for  a  day  or  so,  until  we 
dragged  up  a  part  of  a  dead  man  on  the 
bucket.  That  taught  us  a  lesson. 

It  seems  always  night  now.  We  don't 
venture  out  of  our  subterranean  darkness 
till  evening  has  gathered ;  with  the  first 
hint  of  dawn  we  again  vanish  underground. 
Through  the  telephone  we  are  in  touch 
with  the  open  world,  where  spring  is 
waking.  It's  difficult  to  imagine  that  some- 
where flowers  are  blowing.  What  wouldn't 
I  give  for  one  more  spring  of  freedom  with 
all  the  sweet  and  fragrant  smells  ?  How  we 
shall  value  the  little  beauties  of  life  if  we 
manage  to  survive  this  valiant  hell ! 

It's  about  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
In  about  two  hours  we  shall  climb  out  and 
start  to  work.  Behind  us,  leading  over  the 
ridge,  there  is  a  broad  white  road,  down 
which  at  night  the  ammunition  is  brought 
to  us.  It  is  carried  on  pack-horses.  If  we 
used  the  limbers,  they  would  be  heard  by 
180 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

the  enemy  ;  then  again,  if  a  limber  were 
hit  or  ditched,  it  would  hold  up  the  traffic. 
Just  at  present  we're  building  pits  to  take 
our  shells  and  trying  to  get  some  cover 
over  them.  The  important  thing  is  not  to 
make  tracks :  they  would  be  recorded  on 
enemy  aeroplane  photographs. 

After  such  a  long  wait,  two  nights  ago  I 
received  your  last  letter.  You  hadn't  quite 
forgotten  me.  You  hadn't  forgotten  me  at 
all.  You  have  been  ill,  but  you're  better 
now.  You  don't  tell  what  was  the  matter — 
only  that  it  was  a  slight  septic-poisoning 
contracted  through  a  scratch,  when  you 
were  doing  something  for  a  wounded  soldier. 
What  was  that  something  ?  I  want  to  ask 
so  many  questions.  But  you  must  be 
better  now,  or  you  wouldn't  be  back  at 
duty. 

So  they  sent  you  down  to  Monte  Carlo 
to  convalesce !     You  give  a  gay  picture  of 
the  dashing   Serbian   officers   who   are  re- 
covering from  wounds  or  on  leave  there. 
181 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  like  that  explanation  one  of  them  gave 
you  of  his  gaiety,  "  We  do  not  wish  to  live 
to  be  old — only  to  live  while  we  :can."  I 
suppose  if  I  had  acted  on  that  principle 
I  might  have  won  you.  I  couldn't.  I 
couldn't  forget  that  men  were  dying  and 
fighting.  It  was  impossible  to  seize  my 
own  legitimate  happiness  and  not  to  re- 
member. Was  this  weakness  or  strength  ? 
I  don't  know.  One  can't  retraverse  the 
past ;  nothing  can  change  things  now.  Like 
that  young  Serbian,  I  have  no  wish  to  be 
old — only  to  live  while  I  can.  I  had  my 
chance  to  live  while  we  were  in  Paris,  but 
1  hadn't  the  heart  to  take  it ;  I  couldn't 
forget  the  chaps  in  the  line — my  chaps - 
who  had  only  the  chance  of  death. 

I  should  have  liked  to  have  been  at  Monte 
Carlo  with  you.  I'm  glad  you  wanted  me. 
But  I  shouldn't  have  been  happy ;  I'm 
happier  where  I  am.  You  felt  that,  too 
— the  sense  of  dissatisfaction  that  people 
should  dance  and  be  merry  while  others 
182 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

were  placing  their  bodies  between  them  and 
tragedy. 

The  machine-guns  have  started  overhead  ; 
it  must  be  getting  dark.  They  sound  like 
an  army  of  typewriters.  They're  here  to 
protect  us  in  case  the  enemy  breaks  through, 
so  that  we  may  be  able  to  fire  till  the  last 
moment.  We  have  our  plans  all  arranged 
if  this  should  happen.  The  guns  are  to  be 
dragged  out  to  the  right  flank,  so  that  they 
can  fire  point-blank  at  the  enemy.  One 
officer  is  to  be  left  and  three  gunners  of 
each  gun-detachment ;  they  will  keep  the 
guns  in  action  until  the  range  is  no  more 
than  two  hundred  yards,  then  blow  the 
guns  up  and  escape,  if  they  can. 

"  Ammunition  up  !  "  The  word  has  just 
come  through  the  phone  from  the  sergeant- 
major's  dug-out.  That  means  that  the  first 
train  of  pack-horses  has  arrived  and  it's 
time  to  commence  work.  The  poor  horses 
suffer  terribly.  Some  of  them  get  caught 
every  night  in  a  barrage  on  the  ridge.  The 
183 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

roacT  is  littered  with  dead  horses  and  the 
corpses  of  men. 

The  letters  'have  just  been  brought  in. 
There's  nothing  from  you ;  but  I  didn't  ex- 
pect one,  having  heard  so  recently. 


184 


XVIII 

WE  have  moved  out  of  our  last 
position  and  are  in  a  place 
which  is  infinitely  worse.  We 
are  absolutely  in  the  open  and  can  now  be 
seen  every  time  we  fire.  About  four  miles 
away  there's  a  slag-heap  from  which  the 
Hun  can  observe  us  any  time  he  likes. 
The  horizon  is  dotted  with  balloons,  which 
gaze  straight  down  on  us.  All  the  Hun 
has  to  do  is  to  take  cross-bearings  to  our 
flash  ;  the  point  where  the  bearings  inter- 
sect is  our  battery-position.  Directly  we 
open  fire,  he  starts  to  shell  us,  just  to  let  us 
know  that  he  can  knock  us  out  whenever 
he  chooses. 

When  we  moved  in  here  we  had  no  dug- 
outs— no    sort    of   protection    whatsoever, 
Things  are  not  very  much  better  now.    We 
185 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

have  scrabbed  various  holes  in  the  side  of  a 
bank,  dug  a  trench  outside  and  connected 
them  on  the  inside  with  tunnels.  But  the 
holes  are  only  proof  against  splinters  ;  a 
direct  hit  gets  us  every  time.  In  front 
there's  an  archway  beneath  a  torn-up  rail- 
road ;  the  enemy  keeps  it  under  continual 
fire.  We  have  to  pass  through  it  to  get  up 
front  and  never  know  whether  we'll  get 
through  alive.  We  hold  our  breath  as  we 
approach  it ;  then  run  for  it.  The  men 
who  made  a  bad  guess  in  judging  their  time 
lie  twisted  on  either  side.  It's  a  suicide's 
game  that  we're  playing  now — a  reckless 
game  of  hide  and  seek  with  death. 

We  always  know  when  we've  done  the 
enemy  a  damage.  He  at  once  comes  back 
at  us  with  8-inch  shells.  They  have  what 
are  known  as  "  instantaneous  "  fuzes  which 
detonate  the  shell  before  it  has  penetrated 
the  ground  and  kill  everything  within  a 
very  wide  radius.  He  bombards  us  all  day 
and  gasses  us  all  night ;  we  don't  get  much 
186 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

rest.  If  we're  not  in  action,  we  take  cover 
the  moment  he  starts  to  work.  Very  soon 
our  ammunition  begins  to  go  up  in  flames ; 
we  have  to  run  out  through  the  barrage  to 
extinguish  it.  Our  gun-pits  get  hit.  Our 
men  get  buried.  We  spend  most  of  our 
time  in  digging  chaps  out.  It's  horrible 
when  they're  dead — men  whom  you've  lived 
with  and  loved. 

The  Hun  has  started  a  new  trick:  he 
sends  bombing  planes  over  to  finish  us  off. 
The  other  night  a  section  was  pulling  out 
two  damaged  guns  when  the  droning  of  a 
plane  was  heard.  The  next  minute  the 
earth  flew  up.  Out  of  thirty  men  and 
fourteen  horses  only  one  man  and  horse 
were  left.  This  is  real  warfare  that  we're 
at  now.  Everything  that  went  before  seems 
child's  play.  Those  of  us  who  get  out  alive 
may  think  ourselves  lucky. 

And  yet  the  marvellous  thing  is  that  we 
keep  happy.  Danger  is  the  most  hearten- 
ing thing  in  the  world.  Directly  a  row 
187 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

starts  our  spirits  rise.  We  have  the  gam- 
bler's feverish  excitement ;  we  may  lose 
everything  in  the  next  minute. 

Our  trip  into  this  place  was  horrible. 
We  made  it  at  night.  We  had  dragged 
our  guns  halfway  when  the  Hun  com- 
menced gassing.  Infantry  supports  were 
coming  up.  We  were  caught  in  a  narrow 
part  of  the  road  and  jammed.  How  we  got 
our  guns  through  I  don't  know.  We  had 
to  drive  over  living  men  in  places.  An 
attack  was  expected.  We  had  to  get  into 
action.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  what  we 
were  doing. 

I  don't  know  why  I  should  tell  you  all 
this.  You'll  never  read  it.  But  I  have  to 
get  it  outside  myself;  we  never  discuss 
what  has  happened  among  ourselves.  The 
details  of  what  we  are  doing  do  not  bear 
contemplating,  let  alone  discussing.  We 
want  to  forget  them,  and  are  cursed  by 
remembrances. 

Ah,  my  dearest,  this  is  not  what  we 
188 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

planned  to  do  with  life.  We  had  intended 
to  live  it  so  kindly.  There  was  not  one 
of  us  who  ever  hoped  to  carry  weapons  in 
his  hands.  Were  I  to  find  myself  in  your 
presence  now,  I  should  gaze  at  you  strangely. 
Everything  that  you  stand  for — your  woman- 
liness, your  beauty,  your  sincerity — is  so 
remote  from  my  experience.  I  have  become 
something  primeval — not  ignoble,  but  more 
terrible.  Death  and  horror  and  decay  are 
around  me  on  every  side.  One  turns  up 
the  thin  earth  from  bodies  everywhere  one 
treads.  I  have  lived  too  long  amongst  such 
scenes  ever  to  forget.  Were  we  to  meet, 
you  would  not  understand  my  silence. 
After  witnessing  so  much  pain  I  feel  that 
I  shall  never  again  know  merriment. 

Yet  we  carry  on  quite  normally  here  at 
the  battery.  We  play  cards,  set  our  gramo- 
phone going,  sing  in  chorus  when  the  agony 
is  at  its  worst.  Instinct  tells  us  that  some 
of  our  men  have  been  buried ;  we  put  on 
our  masks,  stumble  through  the  darkness 
189 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

and  begin  to  dig  them  out.  Directly  a  hole 
has  been  made,  one  of  us  creeps  in  with  a 
flash-light  and  commences  binding  up  the 
wounded  at  once.  If  they  are  crushed  or 
shattered,  we  wrap  them  in  blankets  and 
ease  them  through  the  tunnels  to  the 
surface.  We  help  to  carry  them  out  to  the 
dressing- station  through  the  barrage,  then 
return  with  our  hands  still  stained  with 
their  blood  to  our  meal  or  our  game  of 
cards.  Water  is  scarce ;  blood  we  see  in 
plenty.  Our  whole  effort  is  to  prove  to 
ourselves  that  we  are  still  undaunted.  The 
Hun  can  rob  us  of  many  things ;  he  shall 
not  rob  us  of  our  courage — our  courage 
which  is  not  fearlessness  but  self-respect. 

At  the  back  of  the  ridge,  where  the  old 
offensive  started,  poppies  are  growing.  In 
the  torn  woods,. which  slope  down  to  the 
plain,  daffodils  are  thrusting  up  their  heads. 
High  above  the  guns  the  larks  are  singing. 
Joy  is  in  the  air ;  it  is  in  our  hearts  also,  in 
spite  of  the  terror. 

190 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  dreamt  of  you  last  night.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  this  has  happened.  We  were 
in  a  garden  full  of  sunshine  and  roses.  You 
were  leaning  on  my  arm.  We  must  have 
been  married  for  some  time,  for  there  was 
no  strangeness  in  our  being  together.  We 
came  to  an  old  stone  summer-house  and  sat 
down.  You  sank  your  head  against  my 
shoulder,  gazing  up  into  my  eyes  and  brush- 
ing my  lips  with  your  hair.  You  were 
intensely  mine  while  the  dream  lasted ;  then 
I  awoke  to  find  myself  without  you.  Will 
it  ever  happen  ?  Will  you  ever  give  your- 
self to  me  like  that  ?  My  heart  cries  out 
for  you  and  hears  only  the  silence. 


191 


XIX 

THIS    is   the    end.      It   cannot   last 
much  longer.     More  than  half  our 
gunners  are  gone  ;  I  am  the  only 
officer   left.     The   bombardment   has   been 
going   on  interminably ;    two  of  our  guns 
have  been   knocked  out.     For   a   moment 
there  is   silence ;   it   looks   as  if  the  Hun 
were  going  to  attack. 

Jack  is  dead.  A  shell  struck  our  mess, 
wounding  him  and  myself  and  killing  the 
major.  That  happened  three  days  ago. 
Jack  stayed  on  to  help  me  run  the  battery, 
but  this  morning  I  insisted  that  he  should 
go  out.  He  had  walked  about  a  hundred 
yards  towards  freedom,  when  a  shell  fell 
right  on  top  of  him.  There  is  something 
damnably  vindictive  about  all  this,  after  the 
way  we  have  tried  to  shield  him.  Four 
192 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

days  ago  the  transfer  came  through  to  the 
Flying  Corps,  which  would  have  given  him 
six  months  in  England  with  the  woman  and 
kiddy  whom  he  loved.  He  ought  to  have 
gone  away  at  once,  but  he  was  too  much  of 
a  sportsman.  He  knew  that  we  needed 
him.  So  Stephen's  dream  has  been  fulfilled, 
and  the  two  white  crosses  will  soon  be 
standing. 

I  said  just  now  that  I  was  the  only  officer 
left  at  the  guns  ;  you'll  be  wondering  what's 
happened  to  Bill  Lane.  He's  safe,  thank 
God !  Before  all  this  started  he  got  his 
leave  to  Blighty ;  he's  probably  in  Cornwall, 
or  some  other  suburb  of  heaven,  spending 
his  honeymoon  with  his  girl. 

•  •  •  »  «v 

We've  just  been  hammered  again.  You 
never  saw  such  a  mess  as  they're  making  of 
us.  I've  been  out  helping  to  extinguish 
ammunition.  Our  remaining  guns  are  still 
in  action  ;  if  the  Hun  breaks  through  we 
shall  be  ready  for  him. 

193  o 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I  never  saw  my  men  more  merry.  They're 
like  gods.  I  almost  worship  them.  How 
do  they  contrive  to  rise  above  such  torment  ? 
All  about  them  their  pals  are  lying  dead. 
There's  been  no  time  to  make  them  decent ; 
they  lie  huddled  and  half  buried  where  they 
fell.  Those  of  us  who  live  are  for  the  most 
part  wounded. 

My  leg  is  crushed  and  I  can  scarcely 
hobble  ;  I  shall  manage  to  hang  on  till  the 
end. 

Our  wires  to  brigade  are  broken  ;  the  last 
of  our  B.C.  party  are  now  out  trying  to 
establish  communications.  The  ridge  is 
being  pounded  so  heavily  that  I  doubt  their 
success.  For  two  days  an  almost  constant 
curtain  of  fire  has  shut  us  off  from  the 
living  world.  No  ammunition  has  been 
able  to  get  up,  no  food,  no  water,  no  any- 
thing. It's  the  same  with  the  infantry  up 
front.  We've  ceased  firing,  and  are  keeping 
what  ammunition  is  left  to  hold  the  Hun  if 
he  breaks  through. 

194 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

I'm  going  out  again  for  a  final  inspection. 
Jove,  how  my  leg  hurts  when  1  put  my 
weight  on  it !  I  feel  tremendously  cheery. 
I  can  hear  my  chaps  laughing.  They're 
planning  what  they'll  do  to  the  Hun  if  he 
comes.  Danger  is  the  finest  stimulant  in 
the  world.  We've  still  got  our  tails  up. 

There's  nothing  more  that  I  can  do. 
There's  a  row  going  on  up  front.  We 
daren't  fire  for  fear  we  kill  our  own  infantry; 
we  don't  know  where  they  are  at  present. 
All  the  lines  are  still  down.  I  sent  two 
men  forward  to  pick  up  information.  That's 
probably  the  last  I  shall  see  of  them.  The 
rifle  fire  on  our  left  is  intense. 

If  I  come  through  this,  I  have  made  a 
pledge  that  I  will  tell  you.  The  last  few 
months  have  educated  me  in  taking  chances. 
You  may  not  want  me  at  first ;  I  will  make 
you  want  me.  You  shall  want  me  as  much 
as  I  want  you. 

Why  didn't  I  tell  you  while  there  was 
195 


The  Love  of  an  Unknown  Soldier 

time  ?  Was  I  over- scrupulous  ?  And  if  I 
had  told  you  ?  It's  the  old,  old  question ; 
I  shall  "go  West"  with  it  unanswered. 
I  shall  never  know  now  whether  you  would 
have  loved  me,  or  could  have  been  made  to 
care  for  me.  Perhaps  you  did  care,  and 
were  waiting  for  me  to  give  the  sign. 

My  dearest But  what  more  is  there 

to  be  said  ?  The  things  one  says  are  always 
inadequate ;  it's  the  touch  of  live  hands,  of 
lips  pressed  to  lips  that  count.  I  want  to 
hold  you  and  to  say  nothing.  I  want 


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